The Ghosts of What Happened
by 8BonnieBlack8
Summary: In some other world, Marina survives Reynard's attack and she and Julia continue with their tentative truce. Over time, it becomes something more. And neither of them are happy about it. / A Marina fic that explores what could have happened if she'd survived & delves into the life she had before meeting Julia (Hint: Abigail Hobbs is alive). Was called: HellBent on Trying to Survive
1. Chapter 1

So I was coming up with this whole other backstory for Marina when I just went fuck it.

I am so sick of them killing off Kacey Rohl's characters so I fixed it. Well, some of it. I also just wanted to see what could become of Abigail if she ever got out from under the thumb of manipulative serial killers - cos, honey, those are not good for your health.

Anyhoo, this takes place partway between The Magicians s2e3, and I'll be jumping around a bit throughout the course of the story. Going back into s1 a bit, early s2 and flashback's of Marina's past, including her time at Brakebills and her life as Abigail.

This story just sort of assumes that Martina was able to transport him and Marina back to the apartment before Alice was able to kill him. Basically the hot second they arrived there.

In terms of Hannibal, this plays off the many world theory. In this world, Abigail was the soul survivor of the Red Dinner. In this world, Marina does not die at the hands of Reynard.

 **It's not necessary for you to have seen Hannibal. The only character you really need to know is Abigail and her history will be fleshed out through Marina. That said, if you have seen Hannibal you're of course going to understand more. But I'm hoping it won't be too confusing. Let me know if it is.**

 **And I really hope you like this. Marina needs more fics. Seriously I'm dying here.**

 **Title from 'Capsized' by You + Me**

...

 _Will:_ _It's hard to grasp...what would've happened...what could've happened, and in some other world did happen._

 _Abigail: I_ _'m having a hard enough time dealing with this world. Hope some of the other worlds are...easier on me._

 _\- Hannibal, Season 3, Episode 2_

 ** _..._**

She's known some monsters in her time, but this guy really takes the cake. Where the fuck did Julia _find_ him? 'Creepy Sadists Anonymous'?

Her one saving grace is that he likes listening to the sound of his own voice, _clearly_. It might very well have sent her to sleep if the things he was saying weren't so damn _terrifying_ , and she's accustomed to terrifying. But it's stalling him. Distracting him from his real purpose - which seems to be to eat her, piece by agonizing piece.

Far from original, in her experience.

But he's talking and that's good. Or she might be down more than a finger by now.

 _(don_ _'t think about it, don't think about it)_

The meows have stopped. At last. She hopes that means it's over.

Whatever magic he used to keep her heart still beating.

The blood still rushing.

But it hasn't started to congeal yet and every so often she swears she can feel a _twitch._

She swallows against the nausea and falls behind her mask, the one it took her so many years to construct. She knew, in fashioning it, that it was a death mask. The one she'd wear one day when the hunter had cornered her and torn the life from her one last time. But she would not go down as prey. She would not go down, weeping and afraid. Begging for another breath, just one more . . .

She's already done that, knows the sequence of events by heart, knows it does nothing to save you, only prolongs an agonizing hope.

If death is to come, she will meet it with dignity this time. She will not let her killer see her fear, feed off it for his own pleasure.

Can he hear her heart, though?

How it pounds in her chest? The sweat clinging to her neck and hands, mixing with blood.

He looks like he can. Like he knows.

Knows her for the act she is.

They always know.

How the fuck did she get herself into this?

 _Yesterday_

"You kidnapped me, Julia!" An actual kidnapping, _complete_ with hood and zip ties. Her wrists still ache. Though her rage proves a comforting balm for that. "After everything I did for you. And to top it all off you were idiot enough to summon a God that would like nothing better than to _eviscerate_ me." She reconsiders. " _If_ he's feeling generous."

Julia doesn't look any happier with the situation than her. Good. "Look, I know alright. You really think you can beat me up about that any more than I already have? You think I don't know I fucked up? I _know._ These people are dead because of me. Because _I_ fucked up. I was . . ."

Well, now she just feels like a bitch.

Nothing new, granted, but it _is_ messing with her justifiable rage.

A part of her, a part she thought she killed a long time ago, wants to reach out to Julia. To do . . .

What?

She doesn't know.

Something.

Something to make that darkness in her eyes fade away. Not disappear. Things like that don't just disappear. They stay with you. A shadow you can never really shake. But you can hide from it, in the dark. You can escape it for a time.

And, Jesus Christ, she wants that for Julia.

She is so screwed.

Frustrated, she looks away.

 _Fuck it._

"It's not your fault."

Julia blinks at her, as if coming out of a daze. Marina can only can guess at the places she has been. She has her own dark worlds to disappear into, knows the struggle it takes to come back. "What?"

"What happened? It's not your fault. You weren't the only one to summon him and you sure as hell weren't the one to tear out your boyfriend's heart and cut his groupies' throats. He used you." She shrugs. "It's what monsters like him do. Anyone could have fallen for it."

Not her.

"Not you."

Not now.

"True. But not everyone can live up to my shining example." she says, trying to play it off, not to hint at the buried truths the comment has unearthed. Seeing that distance in Julia's eyes, how her words may be reaching her but they aren't being _heard,_ she hardens her gaze. " _It wasn_ _'t your fault_."

But Julia looks away. "I betrayed them."

"What?"

"My friends. Quentin."

Fuckboy? "Fuckboy?" What the fuck did he have to do with this. Oh well, it's not like she cares. He could be in ferret form right now and it wouldn't cause her anything but amusement. "I wouldn't feel too bad about that."

Julia turns back to her and there's a steel in the glare of her eyes that Marina hasn't witnessed in her before. One she hoped at seeing, once upon a time. A dispassionate fatality.

Funny. She feels none of the satisfaction she once thought she might at seeing it.

"I don't. That's the problem."

And she can see it really is.

 ** _..._**

 _Will: What if no one died_ _…?_

 _Abigail: In some other world?_

 _Will: In some other world._

 _\- Hannibal, Season 3, Episode 2_

 _ **...**_

Reynard's gone. It's the first thing she notices when they pop back into Marina's apartment.

The next is the body.

Marina, sprawled unceremoniously in the center of the carpet, eyes closed, lips parted with blood.

And no knife.

 _Fuck._

She can only stare, despair rising from that hollow inside her - where it waits - always waiting - for the chance to consume. She won't let it. But she feels the ice of its breath on her now, edging closer.

And she quakes.

' _It's not your fault.'_

Oh but it is.

Martin makes his way over to the body, curiosity on his face as he inspects.

What is she supposed to do with a body?

Marina was the one to deal with-

Should she leave it? Like Hannah?

Julia looks away, is surprised she can still feel disgust with herself.

He bends over, reaches out a hand.

She snaps back.

" _Don_ _'t_ touch her." The words come before the thought even appears. She can't bear it. The thought of him touching her.

 _She_ would have hated that.

And there's this clawing, tormented need to protect her. From him. From everything.

Too little, too late.

Protection is beyond her now. The dead have no use for a shield.

She's learnt that much.

"Are we going to let her bleed to death then?" He asks with a casualness that strokes every fire inside her, the ones she had long since thought turned to ash. But she can't think beyond his words.

"What?"

"It seems our cat does indeed have nine lives." He seems (quietly) pleased with this turn of events. Like a cat himself, one whose just found that the mouse within its jaws still wriggles. If he lets it go, the chase can continue, with so much more fun to be had.

A mouse he happily abandoned to another predator.

 _You were the one who chose to trust him._

No, _use_. Not trust. Never that.

 _I_ _'m sure that distinction will make all the difference for Marina._

Stop. She can't think about that now.

Hastening forward, she drops by Marina's side, fingers fumbling for her neck. A flutter, faint but there. He wasn't lying. "We have to do something quick. Can you heal her?"

"I could," he says in such a way that Julia might as well have asked him if he could change the TV channel. If he was so inclined. She whips her head up to glare at him, hates the position of him towering over her. "But I think it would be more entertaining to watch you do it."

They don't have time for this. "I don't know how."

She's never taken the time to learn healing spells, has never had the knowledge or power to heal something of this scale. Now that she has the power, the knowledge alludes her. And the fucker isn't tripping over himself to give it to her either.

"I'll walk you through it," he decides after too long a pause. Oh, he's just loving this.

"Fine. Just do it now."

"What, no please?"

She glares at him. With every second, she can feel Marina's life slipping further away. She can actually _feel_ it. This close. It hums in the air around her fingertips. And it's getting weaker. "Fucking _please._ _"_

"That's better. Alright," he straightens his suit, which has become slightly ruffled in their unexpected side trip to Fillory (Quentin is never going to forgive her, not a second betrayal), "to start with, you should lay your hands on her stomach, over the wound there." She does as he says, own stomach turning as hot, thick blood soon consumes her from the palms up. The hum gets louder at the contact and a tingling passes down her spine. "Can you feel it? Her life?"

"Yeah," she croaks.

She can feel it dying.

"Focus on that feeling, your need for it to continue."

Julia blinks. "That's it?"

"You have the powers of a god now. Your magic should know how to do this, instinctively. If it was you in her place, you would already be healed. You simply need to direct its focus from the preservation of self to other."

She doesn't know if she believes it's that easy. True, since Reynard, so many spells have now come 'instinctively' to her. It feels too easy, almost cheap. It was a struggle before, working to find the magic, to perform it, to control it. But it felt more real that way. Like it was really hers. Like she'd _earned_ it.

But that's the thing. This magic _isn_ _'t_ hers. It's _His_.

Closing her eyes, she banishes the thought to that place where she keeps all the others. To rot and decay, and rise again to haunt her later. She cannot bear it now.

Instead, she thinks of Marina. Marina and the way she looks when she's doing magic. The elated smile that would sometimes pull her face, the spark in her eyes of true life. A bird, at last, taken to flight.

She has always looked most like herself, it seems to Julia, when there is magic on her fingertips.

In the same way Julia has always felt most like herself when there's magic on hers.

She keeps that image in her mind, listens to the hum, feels the vibration, and prays.

Movement. Liquid running through her fingers. But now it is running in, not out.

She opens her eyes.

Beneath her hands, heat burns, as though Marina's stomach has suddenly become alight. She knows it's flesh and bone working up the will to knit itself back together, cells firing up. She can feel it.

She's never felt such energy.

As she watches, some of the blood starts to bleed its way back in. _Gross_.

Achingly slow, drop by drop.

But all the while the hum is getting louder.

Ripples beneath her hands, muscles replenishing, skin stretching its way back across, a fragile protective layer . . .

Until it's finally done.

The blood that's left behind dries and congeals on black fabric and Marina's chest rises and falls, steadier by the moment.

Hesitantly, she takes her hands away, waiting for the axe to drop. For the wound to reopen and blood to come pouring out.

She waits for the silence of a still heart.

But her ears ache with a reassuring hum and where her hands once rested there is flesh, pink and raw, knitted in a scar.

She wonders if that could have been avoided. If she could have made it as good as new.

Is Marina picky about things like scars?

It doesn't matter. She's alive.

And Julia wants to cry.

She blinks, sitting back on her heels. It's an urge that hasn't broken through since she told her story to Quentin.

But it's there. Real.

And in no time, it is gone.

"Passable," Martin remarks, studying her work. "Not the most ascetically pleasing work I've seen but you managed it tremendously quick. She might be out for a bit, but the worst is over."

She ignores that, takes a hold of Marina's uninjured hand, holds out another for Martin's. "We should go. Before Reynard comes back."

Reynard. Who now has the knife.

She can't think about that.

He stares at her hand, taking his time before, with a put upon sigh, clasping it with his own. They're back in her apartment before she can blink.

"I'll be with the TV if she suddenly decides to croak," he informs her cheerily, marching off to the living room.

She notices, after some time to adjust, that he was considerate enough to transport them to her bedroom. She levitates Marina onto the bed, wincing as the jostle of her body hitting the mattress causes her to groan in her sleep.

Then she sits. And breathes.

And tries not to think about how fucked they are.

That lasts all of about five minutes.

A sharp intake of breath wrenches the silence. Julia flinches, looks over just in time to catch Marina, eyes snapping open, body jolting upright as she chokes on too much air.

Julia's actions seem slowed somehow. It can't be more than a second but it feels like it takes forever to reach her, too long.

Her hands find her sides, her shoulders, fumbling as she helps her into a sitting position. Should she be sitting? Maybe lying down would be best. Healed or not, her stomach just had a hole in it.

But Marina is fumbling, gasping, eyes blinking harshly as she rapidly takes in the world around her, searching, searching.

For Reynard, Julia realizes.

She's looking for Reynard.

"Hey, it's OK, it's OK," she rushes, hands finding her face, cupping her cheeks, making her focus on _her_. She knows what it is to wake up and look for Reynard in a room, never seeing him but some part of you screaming that he's there. He's there. If you can just find him. Find him before he finds you. It's an exercise in torture. "You're OK. He's not here."

The words chip away at the fog of terror, inch by inch, finding their way into Marina's consciousness. She still breathes too harshly, skin hot and trembling under her hands, but she stops trying to escape her grip. Leans into it even.

"He's not here."

Wide eyes. "Julia?"

"Yeah, I'm here." She tries to put all the assurance she can into that one sentence, a line to tether Marina to the present, like she wishes she'd had in those first minutes after Reynard had left. An anchor.

For a moment, they seem to breathe in unison.

Then break.

Short-lived relief flees her face and rage takes its place, sick and hot, rising up to defend its host. Julia sees it a split second before Marina reacts.

Hands shove at her, pushing her away. Hands that once sought to sooth are ripped from their purpose. She blinks, falling back, would have sprawled across the floor if the other woman wasn't still so weak.

It's the shock more than anything that moves her.

"Get the fuck off me!"

 _It makes sense_ , Julia thinks, shutting down, _the calm never lasts. Especially between them._

 _..._

 _"In fact, the mere act of opening the box will determine the state of the cat,_

 _although in this case there were three determinate states the cat could be_ _in:_

 _these being Alive, Dead, and Bloody Furious."_

 _― Terry Pratchett, Lords and Ladies_


	2. Proxemics

_**Um, you may have noticed that I changed the title. Sorry! I promise it won**_ _ **'t happen again. I just found this quote:**_

" _ **We call them survivors, but once the vampires get you, the person you were dies, like any traumatized part of you never leaves that room, that car, that moment, and you walk forward a ghost of your former self. You rebuild yourself over the years, but the person you were isn't the person you become. The great bad thing happens, and you become a ghost in your own life, and then you become flesh and blood and remake your life, but the ghosts of what happened don't go away completely. They wait for you in low moments, and then they wail at you, shaking their chains in your face and trying to strangle you with them." ― Laurell K. Hamilton, Affliction**_

 _ **And I felt that it fit the story a lot better than the song/title I previously used.**_

 _ **So I noticed when studying the scenes with Marina**_ _ **'s body in them (I know, morbid much) that she had bled from her mouth and ear and that parts of her eyes were red. There didn't seem to be any significant injury that could have caused death (like the stab wound I use in this story). So this leads me to assume that Reynard killed her with a aneurysm or something similar, I suppose anything that would could cause internal hemorrhage in the brain region.**_

 _ **So me saying she was stabbed is a bit of a faux pas on my part. Sorry. But I**_ _ **'m gonna ask that we just ignore that. Please?**_

 _ **(also the amount of google searching I had to do to find out what Americans call tracky dackys lol)**_

 _ **Fun fact: it is not possible to write ejaculate in a serious sentence that relates to nothing sexual. It**_ _ **'s just not. I tried.**_

 _ **There**_ _ **'s also some Hannibal references in this chapter that might be a bit confusing to those who haven't seen it but they'll be explained later on. If you want to know who Nicholas Boyle is, though, he was the first person Abigail killed (by stabbing him in the stomach).**_

 _ **And let**_ _ **'s just have a moment of silence for poor Julia in last night's episode. I mean seriously, give the girl a break. Raise your hand if you want to kill Reynard, or the writers, or both. I'm just praying that she's going to find a way to have some kind of abortion in the next few episodes because Jesus Christ. Also, if you're wanting to know if I'm going to include that in my story I have no idea. I really don't want to torture her. Like I've already written out some scenes for it but yeah I just don't know. Poor Julia.**_

 _ **On that note, there**_ _ **'s going to be a bit of blame going around when it comes to Reynard. Mostly because I feel it's true to the characters and that Julia would have a fair bit of guilt/self-recrimination for summoning him (we've already seen that on the show). It in no way reflects my own viewpoint. NO-ONE is responsible for Reynard's crimes except Reynard himself. Bastard.**_

 _ **I really want to kill him.**_

 _ **Alright, we're gonna jump back in time a bit. This picks up the night BEFORE the showdown with Reynard in 2.03. It's Julia and Marina sharing a bed. No really, that's it.**_

…

 _ **proxemics**_

 _noun_

 _the branch of knowledge that deals with the amount of space that people feel it necessary to set between themselves and others._

 _ **personal-space**_

 _noun_

 _The physical space closely surrounding a person, which can lead to discomfort, anger or anxiety if encroached on._

 _ **vulnerability**_

 _noun_

 _Vulnerability is a weakness or some area where you are exposed or at risk._

 _(technology) A bug or feature of a system that exposes it to possible attack, a flaw inthe system's security._

…

After some debate - "I am _not_ sleeping out on a couch with that Broadway reject hollering in my ear" - the two retreat to Julia's bedroom. Though the bed's big enough for both of them, with still room to move around, Marina can sense that Julia's more than a little uncomfortable at the prospect of sharing. Which, no wonder.

If someone raped her then she'd be hard-pressed not to keep a ten-foot pole between her and every other meatbag on the planet, and then some. Actually, she pretty much wants to do that anyway.

She can remember, though, the jolt of adrenaline that crashed into her every time someone moved her way. How she would freeze, skin burning at the touch of another. The all encompassing fear and desire to shrink away, to disappear into space, where she could never be hurt or touched again.

And yet, inexplicably, how she also craved human contact, _craved_ it. Even as she flinched away, even as every instinct in her screamed at her to run, she wanted to sink into that hold, to fall into strong arms, enveloped, protected from all outside forces that wished to do her harm.

(and there were so many)

But that was a long time ago. Now all that remains is a lingering unease and disgust.

If anyone touches her now, she's more likely to set their hand on fire than to flinch away.

And she prefers it that way.

But, yeah, she gets it. Julia's misgivings. Irritating though they are.

She's not exactly eager to hop into bed with the brunette, either. The last time she slept beside someone was . . .

She takes a moment to think about it, recoils.

Well, it was a long time ago. Back before she knew what it was to bleed.

No, this experience isn't going to be pleasant for either of them.

Doesn't mean she's going to give up her right to the bed, though.

Julia dragged her into this, the least she can do is ensure that she doesn't suffer through the night and wake with the torment of a bad back tomorrow. Especially considering what they plan on doing.

Taking on Reynard.

Or rather, being fucking _bait_ for a sadistic fox in hopes that he'll wonder into their trap - and won't, you know, kill them all for it afterwards.

That's going to be a rough ride through hell as it is, no need make the road even bumpier.

Julia is just going to have to get over it. Or sleep on the floor.

"Which side is yours?" What? She can still be considerate.

Julia stares at her for a moment, vacant. "Uh, right."

Right.

"OK, then," Marina says, stalking over and pulling back the covers on the left without ceremony. And there runs into the second problem of the night. Or the billionth, if she really wants to get technical.

She didn't bring any nightwear, an admitted error on her part but too late now to correct. _Just going to have to do without._ Reaching for the hem of her shirt, she begins to tug.

There's a noise behind her. "What are you doing?"

 _In any other circumstance I would be seducing you. . ._

She huffs but doesn't turn around, wrestling free of the shirt at last. "What does it look like I'm doing? I'm getting ready for bed. Frankly, it's been a long day and your boy's show tunes have given me a headache and all I want to do is sleep and forget that I ever met him _or_ you or that there's an actual God out there who's itching to yank out my intestines, or heart or some other vital organ that I'd really rather not live without."

Pause.

"I'll get you some pjs."

Considerate.

And exactly what she was angling for. Don't ask for something that can be given freely, and if Marina knows anything it's how to get what she wants in a rotten situation.

There's a _thump_ not a minute later and said pajamas land on her bed. A long sleeved red shirt, grey sweatpants. She wrinkles her nose. _Not_ her usual fair.

A couple of hand movements, some quiet words and the problem is solved. What was once a distasteful mass morphs into a simple black singlet and leggings - unlike the pajamas they're in her size. The change is temporary, only lasting twenty-four hours, but she doesn't plan to be sticking around for longer than the one, torturous night. Because that just might kill her, if a god doesn't first.

She's quick to discard the rest of her clothes and pull the garments on. She's not shy when it comes to nudity, figures that enough faceless hospital staff have seen her body by now that it hardly matters who gets a peak. It's just skin. Easily torn, easily scarred. Little more. And whilst she takes no pleasure in showing it off - prefers not to in fact - it's long since ceased to be a source of embarrassment.

She's mindful of Julia, though, still in the room, hovering, uncomfortable. Finds that she doesn't want to make it worse for her.

A spark of fury rises at the realization.

She doesn't _want_ to care about Julia and what makes her uneasy and what doesn't.

She's still pissed at her for landing her in this mess in the first place, even more so for daring to _kidnap_ her, and using Bublé of all people to do it. Fucking _Michael Bubl_ _é -_ seriously, where did Julia even find this guy? But it's nothing compared to the rage she still feels for Fogg, slivering in her veins, circuiting from her heart.

Another man she thought cared about her. Another man who wouldn't blink to see her dead. At least this one didn't do the deed himself.

Even after he expelled her, she had faith - _foolishly -_ that he still nursed some lingering affection for her. Faith that all those late nights spent in his office, teaching her the things her lessons couldn't; the afternoon teas which she always demonstrated such reluctance to attend but secretly looked forward to; the exchange of letters during the holidays, sharing commentary on spells, debating back and forth . . .

That she wasn't alone in recognizing their significance.

That they meant something to him, too.

But they didn't. Clearly.

He turned her away, as easily as one might an unwanted salesmen that darkened their door. Revealed that, even if he wouldn't gloat at her death, he wouldn't cry over it either - nor would he lift a finger to prevent it.

Even when he knew what it would mean. _Why_ she feared that closing curtain so much more than anything else.

He _knew_ and still he-

She broke apart the train track of that thought, refused to let it continue. To descend into _wallowing,_ or even worse: self-pity.

The point remains that Julia's crimes are nothing compared to that.

And whilst she won't forgive, she's willing to let it slide. For now.

It takes almost an hour for the two of them to settle into bed, Julia using the majority of the time to procrastinate in an effort to avoid the inevitable. It would be amusing if it wasn't so sad.

In the end, Marina loses patience and resolves to take the initiative. Huffing, she bursts out, "I promise I won't touch you, Julia. Just get the hell in bed, I'm tired."

Julia rolls her eyes at the acidic tone but after some remaining hesitation complies. Marina closes her eyes and exhales. _At last._

There's stillness for a time. Blissful silence in which she nearly nods off. But Julia's still stiff beside her.

A noise, a frustrated breath to her right.

Maybe she _should_ have taken the couch.

Closing her eyes, she counts to ten. "Julia, I swear to-"

"I'm scared to, OK?" the other woman snaps.

Deep breath in. _Patience, Marina_. "Scared to what?"

A pause.

It's like pulling teeth.

"Sleep. I'm scared to sleep." She opens her eyes, catches Julia moving her hands to her face, heels digging into her eyes in frustration. "Every time I try, every time I close my eyes I see it. All of it. Playing out again as if I'm right back there in that moment."

Marina blinks. _Oh_.

Rolling onto her side to face her, she takes a moment. "But you're not. You're here." _Obviously_. The words are meaningless. She knows that as soon as they're out. But she's not good at this. This _comforting_ thing.

It shocks her that she wants to be, though. For Julia. For Julia she wants to be.

It would be the worst realization of the day, if she didn't just find out that an all powerful god with a hard-on for terrorizing his victims is out to get her.

"I _know_ that. I know that. But it doesn't change anything." Her arms fall back to her side with a sigh that is partway to a huff. If Marina is frustrated, Julia is moreso. Shaking her head, she looks up at the ceiling, as if _it_ can somehow provide answers.

Fat fucking luck.

Marina looked at the ceiling too. When she was lying there. Helpless. Bleeding to death. Both times, in fact.

Is it God they're trying to see there, to reach? A higher power?

Well that's even more pathetic. Recent events have, if nothing else, shown that whatever gods there are they don't give a fuck about them.

Expected but unfortunate nonetheless.

" _That_ feels more real than this," Julia admits after a pause, answers not seemingly forthcoming. "Sometimes, I feel like this is the dream and that I'm gonna wake up back there, with him. Only this time he doesn't leave. This time I'm trapped."

She wonders how long Julia has been waiting to share this with someone, how long this truth, this fear, has been caged inside her. And why Marina? Why choose her to share it with? Because she's _here_?

Well, she does make a more enticing candidate than Bette Middler in the other room.

Still, it's a lot of trust. Or maybe just desperation.

Marina once shared her most private thoughts with a serial killer. Not because she trusted him but because there was no-one else. Not really. No-one who could bear those kinds of truths, or at least no-one who it wouldn't be even more dangerous to tell.

She finds the idea of being Julia's last option better than that she handpicked her from a overflowing sample of others. She doesn't trust anyone like that. And she doesn't want that kind of trust placed in her. Not by Julia.

"I get it," she exhales finally, allowing herself just this small moment of honesty; to look back, to remember.

After the bloodbath that was her second near-death, every day passed by mutely, colorlessly. She moved through them as if drugged, nothing ever quite _real,_ all of it intangible. The last vivid moment she remembered was the searing slash of a knife across her throat, and the strong, familiar arms meant to protect her _letting her go_ , letting her fall, never to be felt again.

The only thing that seemed to break through the haze was fear. Sharp, irrepressible fear.

And she didn't know which state was worse.

At night, she dreamed of that moment again and again. And she could never be entirely sure that it hadn't ended for her then. That she hadn't died and this - this was just her brain shutting down, having one last, final nightmare before it all disappeared for good.

She'd learnt though, after everything that happened with her father, that even when life didn't feel real, it could still cut like it was. And you had to be ready for that.

"Really, I. . . I _get_ it." She sighs, forcing back those memories, the ones that have no place in her life now. "But you have to sleep." I _have to sleep_.

"I _can_ _'t."_ Her voice bleeds frustration.

She knows what that's like, too.

Decided, and moving before she can change her mind, she reaches out a hand towards her, careful to stop before touching. "Give me your hand."

Julia angles her head to look at her, confused. "What?"

"You're not the only one with nightmares okay, just give me your hand." She jerks her own in question, impatience rising.

Every instinct in her is crying out, screaming that she retract the offer, reinforce her walls before Julia comes bulldozing through them.

She grinds her teeth and forces her hand to remain where it is, open.

For the longest time - way too fucking long - Julia just stares at it, nonplussed, but then she's rolling over, hand sliding hesitantly into Marina's, and the two of them are facing, both tense, waiting, wary.

"There's a spell I taught myself in second year. It enables the caster or recipient to experience a dreamless sleep." Marina could nearly have cried for relief when she happened across it in the library, and the knowledge of the spell is just one more thing she regained with her memories.

Julia's expression doesn't change but she stills, breath halting at the appearance of a way out. "You can teach it to me?"

Marina licks her lips, considering. "Another time, when we're both more awake." And when there's more time to attach a warning label to the spell, explain the dangers. Because there _are_ dangers.

Dreams aren't like memories. They can't just be extracted like they do at Brakebills, or patched over like she did for Julia. Because they aren't memories. They haven't _happened_ yet.

You can't erase what doesn't exist.

What you can do is put up a barrier in the mind. The dreams will still happen but Julia won't catch them. They'll deflect off the barrier and remain caged on the other side until the breaking of sleep.

Of course, it's only a temporary fix. The dreams are still there, buried; and, unfortunately, buried things have a way of coming back to haunt. Too many nights with the barrier up and . . . things can get a bit messy.

She knows that for a fact.

The last thing they need is for Julia to start hallucinating Reynard and blowing up random objects with her newfound god powers.

"For now, I'll just cast it on you myself." She waits, letting that sink in, the knowledge that Julia will have to hand over a certain amount of power to Marina in order for this to work. Allowing someone to perform magic on you required no small level of trust, and vulnerability. With your defenses down, who's to say they won't hurt instead of help?

But they did this once already, with the memory spell, so this shouldn't be too much of a trial in comparison.

Still, Marina might have denied the help in her place.

When no protest comes, she squeezes her hand in question. "Ready?"

"Yes." Well, she sounds sure at least.

"Alright, don't close your eyes, stay looking into mine. And do your best to clear your mind, however much you can. I'll do the rest."

Julia nods but pauses, a new hesitance coming into her eyes. _What now_? "Uh, thankyou, I guess."

Marina scoffs. "I couldn't care if you get a peaceful sleep or not." Lie, but it's not to her benefit for Julia to know that. "I on the other hand refuse to go without my standard five hours. So be quiet and let me do this."

She might want to help Julia, to comfort her even. But she'll be damned if she lets her know that.

It's true she confessed to wanting to help in the past, but that was a slip, a mistake born of shock and a startling reminder of past nightmares. She was too shaken, too concerned to hide her care. But that's not the case right now.

She still has her walls.

Julia and her bulldozer be damned.

…

" _At the end of the day, when it comes down to it, all we really want is to be close to somebody. So this thing where we all keep our distance and pretend not to care about each other, it's usually a load of bull. So we pick and choose who we want to remain close to, and once we've chosen those people, we tend to stick close by. No matter how much we hurt them. The people that are still with you at the end of the day, those are the ones worth keeping. And sure, sometimes close can be too close. But sometimes, that invasion of personal space, it can be exactly what you need."_

 _\- Shonda Rhimes_

…

Julia isn't used to sleeping alone. At least, not yet.

Almost always, there's been someone there beside her. James, back when he still remembered her. Quentin, before they screwed their friendship over. And even further back, she would sneak - _quiet, quiet, don't make a noise, Mum hates to be woken_ \- down the hall to her sister's room, crawl into bed and wrap herself around her like a monkey.

But things are different now. Have been for weeks. Even before Reynard.

She's not used to sleeping alone but she almost prefers it at this point. The quiet. The space. No-one to disturb or be disturbed by.

She's growing accustomed to her solitude.

Especially now when the thought of having anyone that close, feeling their heat and the slap of their breath-

It turns her muscles to stone and makes her heart race.

When Marina invited herself into her bed, she froze. She didn't want her that close, didn't want _anyone_ that close. She wanted a circle of space around her at all times, a barrier that no-one could pass and that would never fall. She wanted to feel safe.

But she hasn't felt safe since Reynard. Can't feel safe until he's gone. Maybe will never feel safe.

And then there's the nightmares. The attacks in her sleep that she can't defend against, can't control, the deluge of vulnerability. She doesn't want anyone to see her like that, certainly doesn't want _Marina_ to see her like that. Marina who sniffs out weakness like a bloodhound ready for the hunt, who has no qualms about using such knowledge against her.

She may be helping Julia now but that in no way means she's not still a threat. They're not friends. Hell, Marina would probably still be a threat even if they were. She doesn't strike her as the type to value friendship and, well, look at what Quentin and Julia did to each other - and they were friends since childhood.

But to retreat, to give up the bed and find somewhere else to sleep, would be a weakness all its own and one that Marina wouldn't fail to miss.

Either way, she's screwed.

It takes time, but she eventually coaxes herself into the bed. Muscles taut, she ensures there's as much space as possible between her and the other hedge witch.

She doesn't expect Marina to reach out to her, both figuratively and literally. She doesn't expect her to help, to _want_ to help. She expects even less for her presence to be . . . comforting.

And she certainly doesn't expect, after a night of sharing, to find herself wrapped around the taller woman in complete obliviousness to all that lay between them. It's not intentional. She didn't fall asleep last night thinking, 'hey, let's cuddle a grizzly bear, see how that goes!'.

But her body is used to company. It craves the heat and touch of another, the comforting cocoon that two human bodies can come together to form. It acts without her consent and when she wakes, her arm is holding Marina to her chest, her nose nuzzled in the soft crook of her neck. There is hair in her face, tickling.

It's weird.

But also nice.

It's nice to hold someone, to be this close, and not want to run. She's relaxed, comfortable if not content, and her flesh doesn't burn at the contact.

She suspects if the other woman were to move, to jolt suddenly, reach towards her, then all that would be forgotten. Instincts would kick in, adrenalin would surge, and she would spring away as surely as if the other woman was coming at her with a knife.

But she's still. And Julia is calm.

She breathes in and allows herself just this once, just for a moment, to be. Before it all goes to hell again.

So attuned to the contact, it doesn't escape her when Marina stiffens. She locks up, like a mouse in a trap, panicked but unable to move. Julia can sympathize.

"Marina?"

And the body is moving away from her instantly. "Didn't know you were a snuggler," she grumbles, eyes not meeting her own.

Julia says nothing as the other woman climbs out of bed, still refusing to look at her, and grabs her clothes from the day before. When she begins to change without any concern for her presence, she sighs and rolls over, lifting a hand to massage her forehead.

 _Welcome back to reality. It's a shitstorm. We hope you enjoy your stay._

Well, it was nice while it lasted.

Another sigh and she heaves herself out of bed.

Time to go kill a God.

…

Staring into the mirror, she traces a path from the lining of her ear - the newest part of her - down to the side of her throat. Even after all this time, she can still see it there. As much as she loathes it, the reminder is always welcome. Love. Trust. This is what it gets you. A gaping throat and enough blood to drown in.

He won't cut her there, though - too clean. Hearts. Intestines. Organs. That's what he likes.

The hand moves to her chest, feeling out the path from there down to her stomach.

She's never been gutted before. What will it feel like?

(What did it feel like for Nicholas Boyle?)

A quicker way to die, for sure. No slow bleeding out on the floor, gasping like a fish for her this time. Those days, at least, are behind her.

 _Quick._

She growls, and lashes forward, punching the glass. It breaks away, splintering, cutting into her skin.

She doesn't want quick.

She doesn't _want_ any of this. Not again.

The blood pulses out around her wrist, swamps her fingers. She's cut a vein. Of course she has.

She hasn't come all this way just to be torn apart by another man, god or not. She's meant to be better than that by now. Or else, what was it all for?

She hates Julia in that moment, for bringing her into this. For summoning a raping, murdering _god_ with a taste for blood like hers. For joining the hedge witches. For being Julia, someone that she can't just ignore like all the others, someone she's still infuriatingly drawn to.

For being the first person she's liked in half a decade.

This is all her fault.

And Marina would would wash her hands of her if she could.

(there's a part, a small part, call it the masochist in her, that likes that she can't)

The knock on the door makes her jump. _Seriously?_ Already this situation has her falling back into bad habits.

"Marina? I heard a noise."

 _Speak of the devil and she shall appear._

"I'll be out in a second," she snaps, not feeling inclined to explain away the noise. Let her wonder . . .

She's still feeling sour about that morning's surprise. Snuggling _. Snuggling._

She should have taken her chances with Bublé.

Looking from the damage of the mirror down to that of her hand, she huffs in annoyance.

 _How juvenile._

But an easy fix.

A few twists of her fingers is all it takes for the mirror to repair itself and the wound to close over. Almost good as new - if you look close enough you can see the traces of cracks on the once smooth surface. _Hmm_. Not her best work, but she's pressed for time.

Cracking the stiff joints of her neck and giving herself one last once over - not a hair out of place - she exits the bathroom. Julia is waiting for her on the outside, eyebrows raised in question.

Marina breezes past her. "Let's go bait a fox."


	3. This Will Crush You

**A/N:** **Thankyou so much for being patient guys! I've been sick but I'm feeling a little bit better now. (Fair warning: my health is shit so I tend to get sick a lot, sorry in advance!)**

 **OK so I think what the writers were trying to get at in 2.04 is that Marina left that message on her arm for Julia because before she died Reynard spilled the beans on a way to take him down. Yeah, well, in this that didn** **'t happen.**

 **Because in my head, I can** **'t really make sense of why Reynard would share this very crucial piece of information with Marina. Like how would that even come up in conversation? 'Hey, I'm doing my best to make you shit scared of me so to really get you shaking in your boots ill tell you about that one time a witch much like yourself got the better of me and trapped me in another dimension for 40 years. Doesn't that just give you chills?'**

 **Yeah, I don** **'t know. It's possible. But for the case of this story we're assuming that no such thing happened and Marina left that message behind on her arm for an** _ **entirely**_ **different reason (spoiler alert).**

 **And Julia with her one track mind - bless her - assumed the message was about Reynard. Luckily for her, Marina actually had some information to give her which she gleaned from her time stuck in a hell dimension (more to come on that).**

 **Yeah, so I** **'ve been thinking about it a lot and I reckon I'm just gonna throw cannon to the wind and write my own story. I'll still keep bits and pieces but I just don't like what they've been doing to Julia. I may keep her pregnancy in but there's no way she's going to have to go through with it and banish Reynard during labor. Like wtf?!**

 **I** **'ll try to keep the world as much the same as possible but I feel like I have other options that could be pursued. Especially since Martin didn't die and thus Julia can still freeze Reynard and kill him - if she can get her hands back on the knife. So there's that.**

 **But also I kind of have this whole alternate plot for taking down Reynard as well as stuff about his background and goals - none of which will probably mesh with the tv series. How would people feel if I went there? In the beginning I really wanted to keep this canon but my plot bunnies have been super horny lately. Would people mind? Or would they prefer I stick with the TV series? Please let me know because I** **'m very anxious about this.**

 **I** **'m also going to include some things from the book because some of that stuff is worth keeping in. There's also stuff I can't include but I wish they had kept in but when you read the books you really understand just how much Free Trader Beowulf meant to Julia (also that whole storyline is way more interesting in the books). These weren't just her friends or her best friends, they were her family, the only one (in her mind) she had left. They were there for her in her darkest time and they understood. I don't think it would be a stretch to say that they mattered to her more than Quentin. So I reckon Reynard killing them was probably just as much, if not more, traumatic than the rape. Really I just feel for her. I mean losing your entire family (except for Kady/Asmodeus)** _ **and**_ **being raped all in the one day. And I kind of wanted to whack Quentin for trying to make her feel guilt about doing what she is for revenge instead of *insert noble goal here*. If she wants revenge for what happened then fuck why not? Obviously she wants to save people from Reynard as well but if her number one priority is revenge then that** **'s completely understandable.**

 **There** **'s no right way to respond to trauma. And honestly I think she's doing pretty well.**

 **Honestly, I just want to hug her. A lot.**

 **And I feel like the series really downplayed what Julia went through to get her hands on magic, to even prove to herself that she wasn** **'t going crazy and it really is real. I mean, it was three years of dogged determination (not to mention self-destruction) and no small amount of intelligence that had her finally tracking down Safe Houses, leveling herself up, and later making her way to Free Trader Beowulf. There was no one to give her hand, no Pete to sexually assault her in the bathroom but then invite invite her to a safe house at the very beginning, no Richard visiting her in rehab to show her an alternate way. Show Julia fights hard for everything she has but I gotta say book Julia fights even harder (also fyi Julia Wicker is a literal genius I had no idea). So I'm kind of sad they took that part of her character journey away (though at the same time they gave us Marina so…)**

 **Anyway, the reason I** **'m ranting is because I just finished reading her parts. Sorry!**

 **TW: mentions of rape (to be expected because of the source material), violence/torture (again, source material), self-blame (again can I just hug Julia?), and self-harm (right at the end, did not intend for it, very sorry to include it, but it felt right. As someone who has self-harmed I know this can be very triggering. It** **'s the fourth and fifth last paragraph and it's OK to stop reading when you get to it, you're not missing anything)**

 **Wow, I swear there was about ten times less angst in the first draft of this chapter.**

…

 _ **blame**_ _(bl_ _ām)_

 _tr.v. blamed, blam_ _·ing, blames_

 _1\. To consider responsible for a misdeed, failure, or undesirable outcome_

 _2\. To find fault with; criticize_

 _3\. To place responsibility for (something)_

 _n._

 _1\. The state of being responsible for a fault or error; culpability._

 _2\. Censure; condemnation_

 _Idiom:_

 _to blame_

 _1\. Deserving censure or disapproval; at fault_

 _2\. Being the cause or source of something_

…

"That _mother fucker_ killed cupcake!"

"Cupcake? Really? What an abdominal name."

It's been like this for going on twenty minutes. 'This' being the shouting. After Marina thoroughly rejected her attempts at comfort, she didn't waste time in ensuring that Julia knew just how much she'd fucked up. Julia, for her part, was more or less happy to oblige.

She's been standing back and enduring the rant, tuning out here and there to picture that longed for aspirin that could really put a dent in her burgeoning headache. If she left to go get it, though, the chewing out would probably restart from the beginning and that means more time spent standing still on her aching feet. Also, you know, rude.

No, best to just see it through.

She doesn't have the energy to mount a defense, nor the desire. There might not even be a defense worth more than the dirt under her fingernails _to_ mount. It all seems pretty cut and dry from where she's standing:

Julia summoned a God. Julia made a deal with The Beast. Julia trusted The Beast enough to include him in their plan. Julia involved Marina in said plan. The Beast turned on Marina and left her at the mercy of Reynard. Marina lost a finger, a cat and almost died. Reynard took the knife. Reynard escaped. Reynard is still alive. Reynard took the knife, escaped and is still alive.

Julia 'fucked up'.

Julia pretty much _always_ fucks up. She is probably fucking up right now. Just standing here. Thinking.

She's not sure what she could be fucking up but if there is a thing to fuck in an ascending direction then odds are she is doing so.

So, yeah, an open and shut case. No lawyer would want to represent her.

And so it seems best just to let things run their course. Marina clearly has some steam to blow off and she's weak enough at the moment that her bark doesn't pose much risk of developing into one hell of a bite - though Julia can't say she wouldn't deserve it. She keeps the 'Top Bitch in New York's hands in sight, though, on the lookout for any sudden movements.

One of them is still dripping blood. She should tend to that. Having saved her from impalement, it would be a shame if she were to suddenly keel over from blood loss or die from septicemia.

Marina, for her part, seems not to notice.

Martin joined them with a packet of popcorn - she doesn't even _have_ popcorn - about a minute after the commotion broke out.

He's the only one who seems to be enjoying himself.

Fuck that, this is a regular day out to the cinema for him.

" _You_ , don't talk." Marina points a finger at Martin, the one to voice the unfortunate question. He raises an eyebrow but seems more amused than offended by her daring.

Julia takes the interruption to think about the recent point made in the offenses listed against her. Another life lost, though this one of the felidae family rather than the hominidae - which has to be something of a point in her favour.

 _Poor Cupcake._

She was a nice cat, as far as cats go.

Marina sways for a second - yeah, OK, she's cutting in - and Julia steps forward, places her hands on the other woman's shoulders. It's meant to soothe as much as support. "You should sit down, let me take a look at-"

It fails.

Marina tears herself away. "Don't touch me!"

Julia stiffens, is reminded of that horrible moment with Quentin, so long ago now it seems, right after her memories were forced back upon her - and retracts. She said the exact same thing then.

Was Marina-

She didn't look like she'd been, when they found her.

Her clothes were still perfectly aligned, if ruined forever by various bodily fluids.

But there was time.

Not when they were in Fillory - Reynard is no fumbling teenage boy, quick to start, quicker to finish, he likes to make it _last._ But before, when they were still trying to break through the wards-

There'd been time.

Julia swallows, thinks that if she'd eaten anything that day it would be choosing now to make a reappearance.

She thought she got there in time.

But what if she didn't?

Marina's reaction wasn't entirely like her own, instead coming primarily from a place of anger, her eyes seething and frame shaking with more than just adrenaline. But there's a wideness to her eyes that speaks of something else, something that shadows Julia's every moment.

Furious she may be but she's also _scared_.

And why shouldn't she be? When that son of a bitch was the last person to touch her. When the stump of her finger still pulses blood - she _really_ needs to get on that - and the mutilated body of her cat was thrust upon her not an hour before.

She has reason to be scared and angry both.

And maybe she did arrive in time to save her from _that,_ but she was too late. She was too late the moment Martin transported them out of that warehouse, abandoning her to her fate.

Julia spares a short look for Martin who is eyeing the two of them with poorly - make that not at all - concealed interest. "Can you give us a minute?"

He raises his eyebrows but obediently skips away, whistling another showtune - how the hell did he find out about _Wicked_ So quickly? _-_ and leaving the popcorn wrapper behind. _Bastard_. She'll never be able to watch another musical again.

She sighs and turns back to Marina who is still eyeing her reproachfully _(warily)_.

"Look, I'm-"

"Where the fuck were you, Julia?" Marina bursts. "Jesus, when I signed up to be bait it wasn't so you and Elphaba could leave me dangling in the jaws of that son of a bitch."

Marina's seen _Wicked_?

Not the point.

She sighs. Again. Fuck Martin for putting her in this position. "I know. I'm sorry. But-"

If she could just finish a sentence . . .

"I mean, Jesus, Julia, I expected that kind of bullshit from him but not you. Guess you're not the only idiot, after all."

Marina huffs, arms coming up to hug herself. She's trembling more than ever, now that some of the rage has abandoned her - probably from blood loss. Her gaze flicks away, as though uncomfortable with the admittance, ashamed that she's allowed even this small bit of trust. And been bitten for it.

She's hurt, Julia realizes suddenly. She actually _hurt_ her.

It doesn't appease her like she once thought it would. Back when Hannah's murder was still the worse thing to have happened to her.

Instead, she feels something almost like guilt, poking through the dead weight of emotions that have settled since Fillory. She's felt very little except shame and anger, self-loathing for her mistakes, and even those are dampened to a degree. Everything that Reynard's done since they summoned him, she's taken on as her own crimes, accepting them as her responsibility without question. Everything he does, everyone who suffers at his hands, that's on her. What happens to Quentin and his friends in Fillory, to magic, that's on her also. It's all on her.

But that place inside her that should be overflowing with guilt is just . . . dead.

Hollowed out.

Like maybe he took more from her that day than just her body.

 _(he did)_

But looking at Marina now, at her shuddering frame, the wounded burn in her reddened eyes, the blood coating the side of her head and the corner of her mouth - the culmination of Julia's mistakes . . .

She feels it. Guilt.

It's almost a relief to know she still can, faint as it is.

And when Martin teleported them from the warehouse; when they were locked out of Marina's apartment; when Penny abducted them to Fillory - there was a churning in her stomach all the while. She thinks it might have been worry. For _Marina._

Of all people.

"I'm sorry, Marina."( _She looks to her, gaze more honest than she_ _'s ever seen it,'I'm sorry, Julia,' but she refuses to see, can't afford to, for it might mean giving in). "_ I didn't know Martin was going to take us out of there."

Scoff. "Well I told you he would, didn't I? That he'd fuck one or both of us over if given half the chance. Guess I was the 'one'. What a surprise."

"Yeah." She looks down, allowing a moment of shame before regrouping. "Look, you should sit down. I need to patch up that hand. You've lost a lot of blood and it could get infected."

"I can do it myself."

"Just let me help you." She pauses. "Please."

She doesn't know why it matters to her so much, only that the thought of leaving Marina alone to struggle with her own wound, the one she wouldn't even have if not for her, falls like a stone in her gut.

Besides, _she_ didn't leave Julia alone. Not then.

Marina raises an eyebrow, challenging. "Want to play doctor with me, Julia?" Playful, almost seductive, but ruined by the shaking and a slight stumble not a second after. She's deathly pale now and Julia's patience - and she had so little to begin with - snaps.

"Jesus, will you just sit down before you pass out?"

Calling attention to her very obvious weakness is perhaps _not_ the way to go. Well, fuck it.

Marina stares at her, eyes wide, like she can't quite comprehend the nerve of her, but Julia's long since ceased being surprised at herself and it's time others caught up. There's a pause, everlasting, in which she thinks the other woman is going to shove her across the room and storm off. She's clearly considering it. But then something else wins out and she bares her teeth in a scowl. "Fuck it." She steps back to the bed and sits down, all but collapsing onto it. "Go full Grey's Anatomy on me, what do I care?"

Julia closes her eyes, feeling at last as though it's safe to breathe again. This must be how the English felt after they finally defeated the Spanish Armada.

She finds herself going to the medicine cabinet in her bathroom before she remembers. _Right. Godpowers._

Why waste bandages and antiseptic when you can heal with the touch of a hand?

When she turns back, Marina is watching her with a raised eyebrow, expression hinting amusement at her expense. Whatever. It's been a long day.

Holding out a hand with an indicative nod, she waits. The amusement stutters, hesitation clouding her face for a split second, before she hardens her jaw and relinquishes her injured hand to Julia's hold.

Bending over, she takes the time to properly inspect.

As she already gathered, it's still bleeding, but it's a slow, sluggish flow now, rather than fast and steady. He bit down past the phalanges, she notes with a grimace, cradling the ruined appendage, and the result is nothing short of grisly.

And Marina always had such beautiful hands, too.

 _(she_ _'s supposed to be practicing her own forms, training her fingers into shape, but she can't quite turn away from the elegant lock and twist of the top hedge witch's hands as she performs her own spell. They flow through the movements so easily, like water, and like the ocean there's a powerful, almost violent current to them. They're beautiful.)_

For a hedge witch, even more than a magician, the most important part of the anatomy is the hands, and the fingers attached. All are needed to form the intricate shapes and patterns of their spell work, every part is necessary at one point or another.

What is a top hedge witch without the full use of her hands?

Blowing out a breath, she draws her attention to that hum in the room, that distinctive sound she's come to know as Marina's life. Ever since tapping into it back at her apartment, it's remained in the background of her senses, a buzzing at the edge of her awareness. It's almost comforting, in a way.

It's so much stronger now and easier to focus on. She breathes in, drawing that energy into the injury she now holds, suffusing some of her own without thought. It's a relatively quick process.

She and Marina watch as, before their eyes, the freshest of the blood retracts, pulling back inside the wound. The skin under her hands grows hot and she notes the slight grimace on the other woman face's and surmises that the healing process is not pain-free. Cells reproduce at lightning speed and flesh reforms, generating a smooth rounded surface over what's left of Marina's finger. It looks like an injury months old.

But she can't help but be disappointed. She hoped that she would be able to do more, that her powers could extend to replacing what was once lost, that Marina would get her finger _back_. It's such a small limb after all, not like a leg.

But her magic withdraws, refusing to do anymore, and so she admits defeat.

Marina doesn't look surprised or disappointed at the outcome, retaining a mask of stony indifference, but Julia has to think she must be.

Neither of them know the extent of her powers. It is not so far fetched to hope that they might have achieved this.

She turns the hand over in hers, inspecting for any further damage, ensuring that nothing has been left scathed. Really, she's stalling.

Marina allows it.

"Did he . . ." She clears her throat. "Reynard, did he-?"

She should be able to say the word. It happened to her. She should be able to _say_ it.

Inexplicably she's reminded of that moment in the Harry Potter books - ' _Philosopher_ _'s Stone_ ,' Quentin would insist she clarify - where Dumbledore gives perhaps his best advice of the series - _'Always use the proper name for things. Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself'_ \- and wants to laugh or cry.

Well, fuck.

Marina lets out a derisive snort. "No. Strangely enough, I don't think I measured up to his . . . _standards._ Sick freak." She won't quite meet Julia's eyes.

Would she lie about this? To her?

Of course. If she wanted to. She'd lie about anything that could potentially make her look weak. Still, when Marina lies she does it without a qualm, head on, eyes locked, daring you to question. There's no way to tell a lie from the truth. But she's not looking at her now, is not trying to portray innocence and honesty. This, more than anything, works to ease the tightening cord in her chest. Shit still went down but at least . . .

At least.

Marina continues. "I think he got more pleasure out of trying to terrorize me than he ever would out of fucking me. Who knows, maybe he would have gotten to that eventually, if he didn't think you guys might come back in a hurry. Turns out he had more faith in your return than I did."

The last is meant to sting but Julia is all but numb to such attacks. It passes her by.

Now that she's pointed it out, though, Julia starts to doubt that he would do to another what he did to her. When all's said and done, that _act_ gave her godlike powers, established her as a threat - she doubts he'll be so careless again. But also, in some sick way, she thinks it may even have been his idea of a 'reward', for being the person who made his return to this dimension possible in the first place.

Bile rises in her throat.

No, that's not a 'gift' he's likely to be bestowing freely. Lucky for Marina. Though she doubts the hedge witch _feels_ very lucky right now.

 _Let_ _'s hope he doesn't discover condoms. . ._

Unable to ignore the dried blood caked at the edges of her mouth and down the right side of her face any longer, she summons a bowl of water and a cloth. Marina could just as easily shower, but Julia doesn't ask. She doesn't want her to leave yet, to have to stop. Healing Marina, tending to her wounds - it's the first time she's felt useful in . . .

She can't even remember.

She's doing something. She's helping someone.

She's not just fucking everything up.

And it keeps her mind busy, distracted from all the shit she can't forget.

Marina frowns at the appearance of the bowl, but doesn't protest when she sinks the cloth into the warm water and brings it up to her face. Maybe she senses that Julia needs this. Maybe she needs it, too.

"You were right," she murmurs, rubbing gently at the blood near her mouth.

Marina raises an eyebrow. "Of course I was. But what thing in particular are you referring to my being right about?"

"Martin." The statement needs no explanation.

She grimaces but doesn't protest and Julia moves onto the blood at her neck. "But I still need him." She wishes it could be some other way, that she could have killed him that first time in Fillory, and never made this deal. But her need for him has become even more pressing now that they no longer have the knife. She may be powerful, but Martin's the only one who knows how to freeze a God.

That's invaluable.

Marina, as expected, draws back from her as if slapped. "You can't be serious? He _turned_ on us. Or does that not count because it was only me who paid the price?"

She shakes her head, voice subdued, "It counts." To be honest, even if it was Julia he abandoned in that warehouse, her need for him would not be any less.

It grates at her. This dependence.

A necessary evil.

How many have thought that and come to regret it?

"I'm powerful," she continues. "But that's not enough. Not against Him. Martin's an evil dick, but he's the only advantage we have. We have to use him."

"The problem is, Julia, that he's using us right back," Marina counters. "And something tells me that he's better at it than we are."

Quite a thing for someone like her to admit, so chances are she's more than right.

Julia grunts in acknowledgment, "He's all I have," won't quite meet her eyes as she reaches back out with the cloth. Marina allows it with a an irritated (defeated?) sigh, leaning in.

"He's not all you've got, Julia." From the sound of her voice, the admittance seems to cause her some pain, but her gaze when it catches Julia's is honest. "And I'm worth twelve evil dicks, at least."

A surprised snort escapes her. "And then some."

But it's not enough.

Marina's the strongest witch, strongest _person,_ she knows but she's not a god - and she doesn't stand a chance against one. This latest disaster proves that if nothing else.

She clears her throat, deciding that they're not going to reach a consensus on the subject this night, and refocuses her attention on the blood at her ear, which is proving to be extra stubborn.

In the back of her mind, it occurs that this is the closest she has ever been to the other woman, faces almost touching, one hand in her hair to keep it out of the way. It's the closest she's been to anyone since . . .

It's not . . . _unpleasant_.

"How did you get this?" she asks to banish the questions that brings up.

Marina purses her lips, doesn't answer for some time. "One of Reynard's little games. Cause an aneurysm for kicks and then heal it so you can start all over again. Real fun."

"I can imagine." What kind of magic would it take to do that? Some form of telekinesis? Aneurysms are caused by too much swelling of the wall of an artery. If she can understand the process, it stands to reason that she would be able to perform it on Reynard the next time their paths cross.

An image appears in her mind of the bastard, writhing on the floor, blood streaming from his ears and mouth, face twisted in pain. Is he the type to scream? She hopes so.

But then the fantasy is replaced by Marina, suffering the same fate, agonized, _alone_ . . .

She shudders.

The carpet was stained with so much blood by her head when they found her.

How many times did he do it?

Face clean, she rinses out the cloth and moves onto her hand. The limb is stiff in hers. However at ease with the situation Marina is pretending to be, her body tells a different story.

"You can go, you know," the words are out of her mouth before she can stop them but she doesn't regret it.

Marina doesn't pretend at ignorance to what she is referring.

"And be by myself the next time Reynard comes knocking? _Again_." The sarcastic glint leaves her gaze and she shakes her head. "Think I'll stick around. Guess you're stuck with me."

"Guess so." And she wants to be sick with how relieved that makes her, how selfish. Covers for it with a muttered, "Thanks."

"Yeah. Whatever."

She's extra gentle with the hand in hers even though the injury is healed and pain is no longer a risk. Sorry words and thanks mean nothing. This is the only apology, the only gratitude that might pose a difference. This is all she has to give.

Marina shivers at the touch of the cloth when it passes over the stump of her finger and Julia pretends not to notice, can imagine it's the kind of thing that takes some getting used to.

When she's finished, she moves to take a step back when something catches her eye. Blood. More of it.

She reaches out before she can catch herself, hand wrapping around Marina's left arm to pull it closer, get a better look. "What-?" Angry red lines mark the once flawless skin. Jagged but purposeful, they are clearly by design.

The arm rips back from her and she winces as her nails scrape the vulnerable flesh in the process.

"It's nothing," Marina cuts, hackles up. "Nothing that's any business of yours, anyway. I'm going to have to a shower."

Julia watches her as she stalks off, movements still a little shaky, pondering the strange marking.

Did Reynard do that? A little souvenir to remember him by? No, he didn't know Marina would live.

So did she do it to herself, then?

She thinks of Marina, lying there, bleeding to death, using her last breaths to carve those markings into her skin.

Why?

Nothing Marina ever did was ever without a reason, always to benefit herself in some way. So what benefit did this one act hold for her, when she wouldn't be alive to reap it?

. . .

" _Guilt isn't always a rational thing, Clio realized. Guilt is a weight that will crush you whether you deserve it or not."_

― _Maureen Johnson, Girl at Sea_

 _. . ._

Her head still aches from Reynard's idea of fun and games so the first thing she does after closing the door to the bathroom is rifle through the medicine cabinet. She searches out the bottle of aspirin and dry swallows a few, wincing as they cut a path down her sore throat. She'd kill for a glass of water right now, her mind somewhat foggy with dehydration, but ducking out to get one now somewhat ruins the effect of storming into the bathroom in the first place. Even bruised and bloody, she still has an image to maintain.

It's doubtful the aspirin will make much of a dent but there's not exactly a pain med on the market for 'I just suffered seven aneurysms in quick succession and my head feels like one of those blocks of wood that's been split apart by a blunt axe'.

The irony of having been subjected on repeat to the same thing she used to kill Hannah is not lost on her. Karma really is the mother of all bitches. If, you know, she believed in shit like that.

It wasn't a fun way to die. Though she still preferred it over the regular old slash to the throat.

So much for quick.

 _-vision blurring, mind bleeding, thoughts oozing together. A stab. Ice pick to the brain. Hammer coming down, down, down, driving in, in, in. She_ _'s splitting apart, seams tearing, body convulsing, blood bubbling up her throat. Darkness comes and for an instance she knows what it is to feel nothing at all._

 _Then-_

Her head pounds.

 _Bang, bang, bang._

Wetness forms over her upper lip and the mirror reflects a dribble of scarlet seeping from her nose. She wipes it away, once, twice, three times before it relents, wonders if some part of her brain has been permanently damaged.

He healed her. But only so much that she wouldn't die.

Who's to say there aren't some hidden parts of her still bleeding, bruised and broken? Who's to say she won't go to sleep tonight and never rise? Or wake to find pieces of herself missing - words, knowledge, _her?_

There is already a part of her missing.

She hides the mangled hand behind her back so the mirror can't see it.

This is nothing new.

There are always parts of her missing.

Turning away from the mirror and towards the shower, she traces the furious red lines on her arm, the message she left for Julia.

 _-scratching, desperate, nails digging into flesh, tearing, darkness coming, red blurring, have to-_

 _What_ exactly? What exactly was she hoping to achieve with her little stunt, her Hail Mary? What could Julia have done for her, if she even managed to figure out the code - unlikely when the other hedge witch hasn't ever stepped foot in Brakebills' library, let alone perused its shelves.

What was she hoping for?

When there was nothing _to_ hope for.

She knows this. Has stewed over the fact often, sleepless nights spent staying up searching for _something._

She knows the answer is out there, somewhere. Countless universes of magic and one of them has to have an answer. She just has to find it.

She _will_ find it.

Is that what she was thinking, sprawled there, stomach screaming as though it had been lashed with acid, growing drowsy and desperate with blood loss? That the answer was there, she just had to last long enough to reach it.

A pointless struggle.

It was too soon. She hasn't gathered enough information, she hasn't figured it out yet, a loophole, the solution.

She thought she would have more time.

Then again, it's been been about five years since someone tried to kill her so maybe she was fooling herself. She should have known her luck was running out. She got cocky, expecting more.

How could she ever have believed there would be more time?

Marina grimaces, stepping into the shower. The sound of the door closing behind her makes her jump and she hisses in frustration at herself. _Not this again._

Washing the dried blood from her arm, she becomes lost in the letters and numbers that become clearer, glaring up at her.

What was she thinking?

The answer, of course, is that she wasn't.

She was desperate and she was out of time.

This is her failsafe, even if she hasn't rigged it to work right yet. She knew she had to do something, that she couldn't just give up, couldn't just let it end-

Not when she knew what that meant.

So she scratched out a message. One that wouldn't have been able to help her anyway. Even if Julia _did_ manage to discover what it meant.

It's amazing what broken straws you'll clasp at when death comes knocking. How easily a dead end can be mistaken for a viable road.

How hope can still manage to make a fool of you.

 _-Hannibal_ _'s hand is there, open, beseeching, calling her. In his other, he holds a knife, already christened with blood. "Abigail, come to me." And she wants to obey, wants to hope so bad. Because what else can she do? There's nowhere to run, no way to fight._ _What can a cub do when the lioness turns on her young?_

 _Maybe it_ _'ll be OK. Maybe he just wants her close, wants her to watch. Tears run afresh._ Watch _. . ._

 _He likes to involve her. Likes to feed the starving monster inside her._

 _It_ _'ll be OK._

 _Why would he save her just to kill her?_

 _(Why would a father want to kill his own daughter?)_

 _It_ _'ll be OK._

 _Just do what he says._

 _Just do what he says and it_ _'ll all be OK._

 _She takes the hand-_

Marina hisses, eyes wet.

(it's just the shower)

She digs her nails in, fury seeping into the edges of her remaining fingers as she drags them across. Again and again. Cuts reopen, blood seeps out, blends in the spray of the water, fades to pink as it circles the drain.

She digs and she scratches until the message is obliterated, until all that remains is a pitiful mess of raw, red skin.

No more stupid hope.

No more questions from Julia.

No more answers.

. . .

" _He turned away, and suddenly she thought about the old children's story, where the stupid girl opens the box that God gave her, and all the evils of the world fly out, except Hope, which stays at the bottom; and she wondered what Hope was doing in there in the first place, in with all the bad things. Then the answer came to her, and she wondered how she could've been so stupid. Hope was in there because it was evil too, probably the worst of them all, so heavy with malice and pain that it couldn't drag itself out of the opened box."_

― _K.J. Parker, Sharps_

 **A/N: Also, if you** **'re interested, check out my Marina/Julia vids where I attempt to make people cry** **:**

 **watch?v=JQ_sTg5Y6Xg**

 **watch?v=Yl1MnbVCBtQ**

 **watch?v=S-kNwZCE-3Y (a julia vid)**

 **Say hi to me and we can cry about Marina and Julia together!**

 **Twitter: /BonnieLextra**

 **Tumblr:** **welcometocaritas**


	4. Weakness, Maybe

**So I** **'m sorry for the late update. My anxiety's been running me ragged. I've been editing and re-editing this chapter again and again. I still hate it but I've decided to bite the bullet and post because otherwise I don't think I ever will. Anyway, apologies in advance for the crappy chapter.**

 **Also for those readers who haven** **'t seen Hannibal, Garret Jacob Hobbs was Abigail's dad. You know, that lovely guy who decided to shoot for parent of the year by trying to her. Fun times.**

 **Another week, another let** **'s fuck with Julia episode. Raise your hand if your uncomfortable with the fact that this is yet another thing that's been forced on Julia without her consent? And as a consequence (punishment) for getting an abortion?**

 **That said, it** **'s nice to see her smiling for a change.**

 **Trigger Warnings: Very brief description of rape (about a sentence), violence/gore, panic attack**

 _ **. . .**_

 _ **Weakness**_

 _noun_

 _the fact or state of not being strong or powerful_

 _a particular part or quality of someone or something that is not good or effective_

 _a strong liking, usually for something that might have unpleasant or unwanted effects_

 _..._

" _My worst enemy is my memory."_

 _\- Unknown_

. . .

"Lie down," Marina says, tone perhaps a little more commanding than the situation warrants. She's used to ordering people around and being obeyed in equal measure. But exerting that kind of power over Julia at the moment is probably the last thing she should be doing.

The other woman only looks at her with confusion, though, and the beginnings of suspicion. "Why?"

She thinks about softening her voice, of extending reassurances - she knows how to play the part, even if it doesn't fit quite right - but that might just throw Julia off more. Add weight to her misgivings. The unfamiliar is a source of discontent, not to be trusted. Best not to coddle her too much then.

"Because you don't want to be standing when this spell knocks you out. You'll be asleep for a few hours, probably more, and that sounds like something that would be best carried out in a bed."

Brusque, to the point and Julia nods, seeming to accept that. "And when I wake up, I won't remember anything?"

"That's the drill." Marina hesitates. "There's a catch, though." And she's been thinking about it ever since Julia confessed what she wanted from her. Mulling it over, brainstorming various loopholes and ultimately scratching them out. Mostly, she's been trying to determine how best to tell Julia - and what her reaction might be. "Doing this will involve sifting through the memories you want gone, in order to get the right ones."

Julia blinks. "So that means you'll. . ."

Marina doesn't leave her to flounder. "I'll see everything, yeah. And so will you. Basically it's gonna get worse before it gets better."

The shower did wonders in cleansing Julia of the tears, blood and various other bodily fluids the day had left her with but there was no scrubbing away that sallow look to her skin. She's alarmingly pale, especially given her natural olive complexion. As Marina's words sink in, the little color that's left in her face escapes in a rush and she's not sure if she's about to pass out, or vomit. Again.

She puts a hand out just in case.

Doesn't touch.

The moment stretches on.

When it ends, a shutter has fallen over Julia's face, locking the emotions away from Marina's prying gaze. Her stance hardens and her jaw clenches.

She knows the answer before it comes.

"Do it."

The color still hasn't returned to her face.

"Julia, are you sure you want to-"

She doesn't let her finish. "I said do it. You owe me that much."

Her voice is as stony as her expression, hard, impenetrable, utterly without remorse.

Marina withdraws at the words, itching to lash out, wound. The standard response. But her quarry has already been struck, butchered, so she forces the urge down, just this once.

Taking a deep breath, she resolves to be kind.

Well, kind for her.

She knew how to be once. She can bring that back. Just for a little while. For julia.

 _(why? Why for Julia?)_

But not because she _owes_ her.

"Fine." The word is toxic, scorching her throat on the way out. Her pride burns. "Whatever. Just lie the fuck down already. I'd like to be out of here by morning."

The brunette says nothing, only approaches the bed with impassive silence. Her actions are rigid with tension and strain as she lowers herself down. Marina hovers, ready, just in case.

Julia has started to shake.

…

" _People always talk about how hard it can be to remember things - where they left their keys, or the name of an acquaintance - but no one ever talks about how much effort we put into forgetting. I am exhausted from the effort to forget... There are things that have to be forgotten if you want to go on living."_

― _Stephen Carpenter_ _,_ _Killer_

…

Julia gives it a few minutes after hearing the shower stop before coming back into the bedroom. It's a good call because Marina is only just sliding the black singlet over her head when she enters - she left the 'pajamas' from yesterday outside the bathroom door before going to check that Martin wasn't about to burn down her apartment. As her bare back disappears from sight, Julia's gaze gravitates up to her throat. No longer hidden by the turtleneck, inflamed patches of red mottle the pale skin with distressing contrast.

She looks away.

Marina, for her part, ignores her presence entirely.

"I was going to make dinner. You want something?"

"I'm fine."

Spurning her offer of food, she collapses onto Julia's side of the bed - an obvious slight - and refuses to budge thereafter. Not exactly the response she was hoping for. She tries again, this time trying to tempt her with ordering pizza, which she knows to be the older woman's weakness, but it does nothing to rouse her.

Julia sighs and starts calculating the benefits of rest vs food when recovering from a near death experience.

After a few minutes of tense silence pass, she decides that the benefits of _not_ poking a sleeping bear far outweigh those of either food _or_ rest.

Though, as far as sleeping goes, she suspects Marina's is more or less feigned. She's too stiff, too harsh in her breathing. In all honesty, she doesn't even seem to be at rest. But she keeps her back to Julia and refuses to acknowledge her - and she has to assume that poking a bear that's _pretending_ to be asleep just so you'll go the fuck away is just as bad as poking one that's _actually_ asleep.

So she gives up, leaves the room and goes to make some dinner that she isn't hungry for. The food will taste like ash in her mouth, she already knows, but she skipped lunch and sustenance is a necessity if she plans on having enough strength to kill Reynard.

 _(and how the fuck are you going to do that, now that he has the knife?)_

She sits on the couch with Martin and spends an hour and a half picking away at a slice of toast - one loaded with enough marmite to give even _her_ sorry tastebuds a stir. They watch Gilmore Girls reruns for a while - he's scarily into it - and twice she talks him down from paying either of the actresses a surprise visit. Imagining the kind of headlines that would cause only worsens her headache and she ends up escaping to the bathroom for some aspirin and a shower. Someone has left cracks in the mirror and she traces them with a sigh. Probably Marina. There was that suspect noise she heard this morning whilst she was in there and if it had been Martin he would have taken pains to rub it in her face by now.

The mirror heals under her touch, surface returning to its unblemished state. As though it was never hurt in the first place.

If only everything could be that easy to fix.

By the time she returns to the bedroom, Marina's act seems to have ceased and she looks to have fallen into a deep sleep. Pushing down a surge of envy, she changes and climbs into bed, succumbing to exhaustion not an hour later.

 _. . ._

 _"This is the moment I realize that our traumas never really go away. They live inside of us, in the deepest darkest pits of our own tiny_ hells _. Cocked and loaded, waiting for someone to come along and pull the trigger."_

 _― A. Zavarelli, Crow_

 _. . ._

She's back in her apartment. Cupcake's mutilated body bleeding all over her lap - heart still beating - her hands working behind her, fingers weaving -

If she can just -

And he's there, a lightning flash of movement, iron hand crushing hers, yanking, up, up, up -

She cries out.

Wrenching pain. Something coming away. Her finger. Her fucking _finger_.

Release. Her hand, hers again

She cradles it against her chest, pumping blood, blood, blood . . .

"So much more fun to be had."

That voice.

 _(don_ _'t look up, don't look up, don't look up)_

She looks up and the image shifts. It isn't Reynard. Not Reynard at all. That smile is _his._

She scrambles back as far as the chair will allow, pushes, pushes, pushes until blood vessels break under pressure.

This isn't happening. This _can_ _'t_ be happening. Dead is dead is dead.

Garret Jacob Hobbs approaches, blood running from his mouth, her severed finger diving in for another bite.

Chewing, he reaches out for her face, palming her wet cheek, thumb stroking bitten lips.

"Shh, I'm going to make it all go away."

The sob tears her chest apart. She can't contain it.

He wipes a tear away with his thumb. Such regret, such sorrow in those eyes.

Such hunger.

The scene morphs, bleeds into the past.

And she's back in that kitchen.

Something sharp and cold digging into her neck.

What happens next is inevitable.

She knows it is.

And still she begs.

Still she hopes.

She cries and she pleads until the blood drowns her.

It always does.

. . .

" _But the fact is, dreams catch us with our armor off."_  
 _―_ _Victoria Schwab_ _,_ _The Unbound_

 _ **. . .**_

It's still dark out when Julia opens her eyes and she fumbles for a moment, disoriented. Why is she awake?

Not a nightmare. Not this time. No, she suffered through that earlier in the night already. It didn't feel right asking Marina to cast that spell on her again, requesting her help after everything that happened. In truth, she's just relieved the other hedge witch didn't kick her out of her own bed in a fit of spite.

Don't look a gift horse in the mouth and all that.

And maybe Marina would have evicted her, if she wasn't so clearly exhausted. The day had definitely worn her down. She might not even have been able to manage the spell, drained as she was.

There's a buzzing in her ear. High key, insistent. Almost frantic.

She attempts to shake it away and, with some hesitance, it lowers to a smothered keen. Blinking, she tries to orient herself, wondering if it's some weird version of tinnitus that's the culprit for waking her up.

Sudden movement disturbs that train of thought. The bed shifting, sheets tugging against her in protest.

A low, distorted mumbling finds her hearing.

Glancing over, she's able to make out the body of the woman beside her - and that it seems to be in distress.

Is she awake? Facing away as Marina is, Julia can't tell. But she's not sleeping peacefully, that much is plain.

"No, please."

The groan stills her thoughts and she hesitates, not knowing what to do.

A nightmare? It only makes sense, after the day she's had.

Reynard has a habit of disturbing people's sleep.

"Marina?" she whispers, not sure yet if she wants to wake her. Sometimes that can be worse. The memory of the dream stays with you then, rather then disappearing into the night as mercy sometimes allows. "Are you awake?"

The body twists beside her, more muffled noises but otherwise no response. Definitely asleep then. Chewing her lip, she wonders if Marina would thank her for waking her, or if she would just get her head bitten off for the effort.

What is she saying? This is Marina, of course it would be the latter.

She sighs and considers leaving it, rolling over and going back to sleep. Selfish but tempting. Maybe even what Marina would prefer - to be able to believe that this moment of 'weakness' escaped Julia's notice.

Though the odds of falling back into blissful unconsciousness are pitiful at best.

A noise.

 _OK, that sounded like a sob._

"Daddy, please."

And it triggers something in her memory, something she can't quite grasp. A phantom left over from That Night.

She hasn't thought about it since. The murder. The r-

 _that_.

Those things are clear in her mind. Crystal, sharp enough to cut. But after that, events start to blur, become hazy. As if her brain just gave up, stopped trying to process space and time. It's hard seeing through the haze to make out what really happened, reminds her of how sometimes she'll look at the clock and realize whole hours have gone by without her noticing - and that she has no idea what happened in them. There are gaps in her life now that aren't caused by any spell (she checked).

Missing chunks of her she may never get back.

Julia can't find it in her to care.

This thing that tugs at her now is even more dreamlike and she can't be sure that the thread she's pulling at is real and not imaginary.

It just . . . It feels like Marina's words should mean something to her.

But they don't.

Either way, going back to sleep is no longer an option.

"Marina." No response. She tries again, a little louder. "Marina."

Again, nothing. But now she can definitely make out the telltale chokes and gasps of somebody crying.

Julia swallows, something hot and sticky ensnaring her chest. " _Marina_."

When her voice still fails to get the job done, she reaches out a hand. "Fuck it." Clasping the woman's shoulder, she gives it a gentle squeeze-

And jumps back just in time as Marina springs up, gasping, choking and heaving as she struggles for breath. Even in the limited light, Julia can make out the wide, desperate eyes and the gleam of wetness on her cheeks.

That snare in her chest tightens, strangling the muscle within.

Trying to steady her breathing, she waits for Marina to calm, for the shock to wear off and awareness to set in - that sudden break from nightmare to reality can be slow to come, not to mention jarring - but it never does. She just continues to fight for breath. Flailing hands find her throat, grasping, fumbling, checking for _something._ Her chest heaves, sharper now, and Julia recognizes the signs of hyperventilation from growing up with a sister with generalized anxiety.

Panic attack.

Since she got her memories back, she's been suffering them herself, though it took her a while to label them as such. They come on at the slightest trigger and most of the time she doesn't even know what that trigger _is._ It's like walking barefoot on a floor covered with broken glass and she can't look down to see where not to step. When the glass pierces her skin, what little control she has left disappears in a torrent of blood. She'll try to fight it, to yank her foot off the shard but something fastens her there, drives the piece further in.

All she can do is wait to be released, wait for the nightmare to end.

Again.

For her body to return to being hers and not just some weapon to be used against her.

It makes the suffering numbness she usually goes about her day in seem like paradise.

Julia shakes her head, drags herself back to the present.

"It's okay. You're okay," she says for the second time that night, wonders how a lie can come so easily.

Marina shakes her head, not seeing her. " _I can_ _'t_ _breathe_."

"Look at me, Marina. Look at me." She wants to reach out to her, to take her face in her hands and lock their gazes together; to anchor her. But she's aware that contact can do more harm than good sometimes, and she doesn't know Marina's boundaries. She's never seen her like this, never thought she would.

Not even when she woke up after Julia healed her was she this terrified, this out of control.

It takes a few more attempts but eventually she turns, wide eyes locking on Julia's face. She still doesn't know if Marina's really seeing her, though. "I want you to take a deep breath in with me, OK? Deep into your stomach."

She may not be able to wrestle her way out of her own panic attacks but at least she has some experience in helping others out of theirs.

She shakes her head, panic rising. "I-"

"You can do this, Marina. You're the strongest person I know, just focus on me." Eyes still wide, she manages what might be a nod between gasps. "Alright, deep breath in."

Julia breathes in, waiting for Marina to do the same. She relaxes slightly when, after a moment, Marina inhales her own shaky, little breath.

It's a start.

1, 2, 3, 4

Julia exhales, nodding encouragingly at her to do the same. She does and, although she's still shaking and panicked, Julia can see that she at least has her attention, and is holding it. That can be the hardest part.

1, 2, 3, 4

"Breathe in."

They breathe in unison.

1, 2, 3, 4

"And out."

1, 2, 3, 4

"And in."

1, 2, 3, 4

This continues for a few minutes. Julia places a hand on her own stomach to demonstrate the rise and fall and eases slightly when Marina shakily does the same. It's been a long time since she's done this for someone, can only vaguely remember some of the techniques, but thankfully it seems to be working. Marina's taut body is gradually beginning to sag as intelligence returns to her gaze.

It's going to be okay now.

 _(it_ _'ll never be okay)_

Marina is the one who stops it, breaking their stare and looking away as she shuffles back.

"I'm okay." She won't meet her eyes. Julia can't blame her.

"It's alright. I get them, too." The words feel as heavy as lead to heave out of her mouth and just as poisonous/dangerous. She wants to recoil at the vulnerability they reveal, to force them back down and _pretend_.

There's shame, too, despite her assurance. Logically, she knows there's nothing to be ashamed of. She understands the physical process, the nervous systems and chemicals involved. That it's not her fault her fight-or-flight response is working over time and fucking up as a result; that her amygdala has chosen now to become a hyperactive little shit.

It's not her fault.

But it still makes her feel weak. And she hates being weak in front of Marina. In front of anyone, really. But especially her.

However, given what she's just witnessed, it feels only fair that Marina have this piece of information, if only so she's not the only one bearing her belly. This sudden, uneven power between them must have her uneasy and Julia doesn't want her to see claws poised to strike where there aren't any.

And she owes her.

Silence. Face still determinedly turned away.

Julia tries again. "Yesterday was shit. It only makes sense that your body would respond to that." _That you would dream of Reynard_. Except, she wasn't dreaming of Reynard - ' _Daddy, please_ _'._ Julia swallows. "It's not something to be ashamed of."

 _It doesn_ _'t make you weak._

Or maybe it does. Julia doesn't know anymore.

If their roles were reversed, weak is exactly how she would be feeling right now. Maybe not if it was Quentin or her sister, but in front of _Marina_?

Yeah, she gets why the other hedge won't meet her gaze.

A scoff. "I'm _fine._ And I don't want to talk about it, okay, so shut up."

At some point in the night, Marina's pajamas reverted back to their original form and they now swamp her thin frame - no surprise, considering they once belonged to James. It has the effect of making her look smaller than she is, fragile. Like she needs to be protected.

Julia knows this is anything but true.

 _-_ _'You're the strongest person I know'-_

Desperation might have driven the declaration from her but it weighs heavy with truth nonetheless. Whatever Marina's faults, weakness isn't one of them.

But even the strong can be hurt.

"Yeah. Cool. Whatever." Julia doesn't really want to talk about it either. Though she would be lying if she said she isn't curious (concerned).

Marina closes her eyes and breathes out through her nose, a heavy gust of frustration. "I'm fine, I just want to forget about it, okay. Forget it happened, forget that you _saw_ it happen."

"Forget what happened?"

Marina looks at her, blinks. For the longest time she says nothing but then a faint twitch of her lips breaks through, not quite a smile but a victory nonetheless. There might even bit a sliver of appreciation in her voice when she says, "Alright then."

She lays back down, shuffling further under the covers. Julia can't help but notice the way she still trembles, how her hands clench tight around the sheets, tight enough to be painful.

But she says nothing, instead proceeding to settle herself.

That Marina is once more facing away from her, can't be an accident and she takes the hint for what it is - the need for distance, for the barrier to once again right itself between them.

Blinking back sleep from her eyes, she tries to calm the unease in her gut. It's just Marina. She shouldn't care this much.

Marina who _hurt_ her, who cast her out into the cold and then murdered Kady's mum.

Marina who came when she called, without question. Who was there for her that night and erased all evidence and memories of horror without cost.

Marina who may have just been triggered into a panic attack because of her. Who has lost a finger and a cat all because Julia forgot that you can have a genius IQ and still be so fucking _stupid_.

Summoning a God level stupid.

In the next moment she finds herself reaching out, hesitant at first but then determined. Marina's good hand is resting at her side, on top of the covers. Julia covers it with her own, light, easy to escape.

A flinch jolts the appendage and she holds her breath.

Minutes drag by but the hand doesn't pull away. Ever so slowly, the stiffness begins to melt and she waits until it becomes lax in her grip.

 _Victory._

Exhaling, she gives the hand a small squeeze. Doesn't feel one back.

That's OK.

Gratitude and guilt could explain this. But it's not that. At least, not completely. She doesn't know what it is. Only that the hand in hers somehow matters beyond the constraints of debt and atonement.

Whatever it is, it's not something she can afford to think about now. Maybe not ever.

Closing her eyes, she prays that the coming days will be kinder, knowing no god is listening.

 _. . ._

" _Sometimes, reaching out and taking someone's hand is the beginning of a journey. At other times, it is allowing another to take yours."_

― _Vera Nazarian_

 _ **. . .**_

" _Memory gives moments immortality, but forgetfulness promotes a healthy mind. It is good to forget."_

 _\- Hannibal Lecter, Hannibal_

 _. . ._

When Marina was ten, her family went to a visiting carnival. It was alive with rides of all shapes and sizes, colors whizzing by, lights dancing in the night. She she was so excited that she forgot to be scared for once, demanding that her dad take her on all of them. Unable to deny her anything but life, he caved within thirty seconds.

It was a mistake.

Sure, some of the rides were tame enough to be fun. The ferris wheel, bumper cars, the scrambler, even one of the roller coasters. But the rest were a recipe for disaster.

Because here's the thing, Marina hates being out of control. It's a feeling that's only intensified with time but she can't remember a point where it didn't exist at some level. And that's basically all amusement park rides are. You get on, strap in, and the rest is out of your hands. The next however many minutes belong to the controller. You can't control the pace, you can't stop, you can't get out. And that powerlessness overwhelms the thrill of the rush.

It's a nightmare.

One ride she went on involved a hell of a lot of spinning, stopping and false starts. It jostled her around and threw her up and down until she clung to her dad's hand, tears streaming down her face as she pleaded for it to be over. Taking a trip through Julia's mind is not unlike that, complete with near debilitating motion sickness and an unfortunate case of vertigo that comes and goes - it's a rougher ride than normal, no doubt the result of the emotional and mental state of the host. Only difference is, there's no safety bar to hold onto or father to clutch. As they spin in and out of the caverns of Julia's memory, she more than once finds herself reaching out to the other woman to steady herself.

Always, she retracts at the last moment. Before contact can ever be made.

The only moments of blessed, disorienting stillness are when they stop on a particular memory for inspection. These are just short breaks, however, as most of them prove too unpleasant to stick around for more than a second or two.

There's a peak into a scene with Julia and some man - wait, is that _Richard?_ Of course he added Julia to his band of little lost ducklings - fucking in bed. She rolls her eyes but Julia grows pale, looks even sicker, and has to turn away.

"Forward?"

"Forward."

She pulls out of the scene and immediately the memories are rushing past again. Too fast. Too far.

That's Marina herself coming in through the door. Julia stumbling, her racing to catch her in time.

She pulls them out. Back, back, back . . .

There's a man on top of Julia, grunting, holding her in place as she struggles-

Marina flicks her hand, the image disappears, and she puts a hand out just in time to support the real Julia as she sways. She doesn't think she's ever seen her so pale, even right before they started this little mind trip.

She wants to continue, to get it all over with, like ripping off a bandaid, but senses that it's too much too fast. That anymore right now and she might break Julia's mind in half. It can happen.

A whisper of words and the world becomes utterly still as darkness takes its place. A respite.

For too long, the Julia only stares sightlessly ahead, and even though the memory is gone, for her it's still probably playing out, in perfect clarity. Again and again. She knows the look. Seen it on others. Has worn it herself more than once.

Marina waits.

And waits.

Debates how long she can keep the spell in place. She might have worked hard to master it during her time at Brakebills - figured it would come in handy if she was ever accused of murder again - but it's not one she's performed since and she's out of practice. Professor Van Der Weghe could manage it with far greater elegance and speed. He knew how to not only erase but to glean the particulars of a person's mind and weave a story with those shadowy threads. A _believable_ story. Though even he got it wrong sometimes.

Marina only knows one way and it's crude at best. To travel back through the memories you up for erasure and put a pin in where you want the new ones to start. Then you manipulate the subconscious to fill in the gaps with an alternative version of events, preferably something the subject won't question. And if you're not a professor who's done it a thousand times, it leaves more room for mistakes. So she's taken Julia along for the ride to collaborate with her. She'll leave it up to her to decide the lie Marina will use to cover the truth with. It has to be as believable as possible, no holes, or Julia, stubborn, questioning Julia, will find them and tear them apart.

And they'll be right back where they started.

It's unfortunate that this way just so happens to be more traumatic.

"If wanting to forget this makes me weak, I don't care."

The confession is hoarse, cracked. It rips the silence apart.

Marina startles. She was starting to get used to the idea that Julia might never speak again, was even beginning to formulate a plan B (it was pretty lousy).

She considers the words for a moment, rolling them over in her mind and trying to determine the best course of action.

 _-_ _'You're such a bitch.'_

' _And you're weak!'-_

It's a shock to realize that she doesn't want to be a bitch _or_ for Julia to think that she's weak. Not when it comes to this.

"My father killed my mother."

She just kind of blurts it out, before she can stop herself. Knows it's the only way she'll ever work the secret free.

It's safe to do so, she knows it's safe. Even if her enchantment is somehow broken, Julia won't be able to remember this nauseating mindtrip. If the memory of it remains at all, it will be no better than a distant dream, distorted, fading, impossible to grasp.

It's safe.

It doesn't feel safe.

Julia glances up at her, some surprise breaking through the dead expression.

Marina tries not to see her. "Cut her throat. Right before he cut mine." She swallows, hand itching to come up, to check. A reflex she's never quite been able to shake.

Said aloud, it sounds like something out of a horror movie - or at least an episode of CSI. Not something that actually happens in real life. Or if it does, it's some poor distant stranger you hear about on the news. Someone who might as well be a character in a movie. But it doesn't happen to _you._

Only it does. It happens. It _happened_.

It seems even more out of place in a world of magic, where even murders are tied up in the fantastical _._ But _serial killers_? Unenchanted knives? It's a bizarre crossing of genres.

But serial killers were the norm for her once, as mundane as the lesser demons and fairies that haunt your local safe house. More than that, they were her world - as surely as magic is now.

But they don't _fit_ in this one.

No, it is another girl she speaks of. Another girl left behind in another world.

So why is she trying to bring her across into this one?

 _(for Julia)_

 _Of course._

That really needs to fucking stop.

Silence stretches on. She thinks Julia's not going to say anything, then, "How did you survive?"

 _Another girl, another world._

"The police were there. An agent shot him. Took a couple of tries to get the job done. Luckily there was a man there who had some medical training. He saved my life. And when I woke up next I was in a hospital, both my parents were dead, and everything as I knew it was over." The words grate against her throat, each one is like a nail she has to pull loose, and she imagines she can almost taste the blood by the end of it. Somehow, though, her voice remains steady, even blank.

 _(not her, not her, not her)_

Julia watches her, waiting for her to continue maybe. She doesn't for a long time.

"My dad killed my mum. And then he tried to kill me. If I could have forgotten that back then I would have have. But I couldn't." And in some ways that's best. She doesn't ever want to forget who her dad really was, how everyone is just waiting to reveal the monster inside. "I had to learn to live with it and I did. Doesn't mean you should, too."

 _It doesn_ _'t mean you're weak._

Or maybe it does. But not in a way that can be used to hurt you.

Because Marina doesn't feel stronger for the things she can't forget. Stronger for surviving them, maybe. But the memories are a source of pain no matter how many layers of iron she walls around them. They can make her weak. Just as they warn her of the dangers hidden around every corner, the monsters lurking behind benevolent eyes, they can just as easily turn against her.

It's a precarious balance.

Julia stares at her. Maybe believing it, maybe not. She can't tell. For the first time since she's known her, the younger woman is unreadable. "Why are you telling me this?"

"It's not like you're going to remember any of it." It's true and it's not. It's easier to admit than the fact that she cares. Cares more than she should. Maybe a little too much.

 _(far too much)_

"Right." Julia nods, still staring. "Thanks."

If it's a staring contest, Marina's willing to lose for once. She breaks away, looks back out into the darkness.

"Ready to dive back in?"

The answer is slow in coming but certain.

"Yeah."

Through some uncommon mercy, the scene they arrive on is free of both violence and sex. The alter set up in the corner of the room, the Free Traders gathered near it in a circle, frozen in time, in hope. Completely unaware of the trap they're about to trip, the bar that will slam down just as they grasp that longed for cheese.

As a child, she would rise after everyone had fallen asleep and hunt down the various mousetraps her parents set out for that night. It was her mission to disarm them, to end the needless slaughter. She feared the crushed little bodies the traps would leave behind if she didn't, hated to watch them be so carelessly discarded in the trash. And given the intelligence and emotional capacity of mice - she read once that they were such social creatures that, like humans, they could become anxious and depressed when isolated; they even had empathy! - it just didn't seem right. If they had to die, they deserved a better death. Something that would honor them.

She thinks her dad might have suspected but he never told - even then they knew how to keep each other's secrets. Her mum definitely knew given the subsequent scoldings she would endure each day. The dark circles under her eyes as she sat at the breakfast table before school were probably a dead give away. Also the growing collection of moldy cheese under her bed that was eventually found - there was no hiding that stench.

In the end, they compromised. One of her father's clients had a python with a healthy appetite. He promised to hand the dead mice over to its owner where they could be repurposed as food. _If_ she stopped taking the traps apart. It wasn't a victory but she did feel slightly better about it. There was worth in the deaths, at least. No part of them would go to waste.

But she still wished there had been a way to save them. For a while there she even had nightmares. Being lost in a world far too big, searching for something, always searching, searching. When she finally found it, a force would slam into her, driving her into the ground until her bones turned to powder and her organs splattered apart. She was dead. She knew she was dead. But it didn't matter.

As she sunk into the darkness, a thousand little bodies would burst from the shadows and swarm her devastated form. What was left they ravaged with vengeance, tiny teeth needling flesh, chewing, tearing. They consumed her until there was nothing left.

She still can't look at mouse or rat without some lingering trace of nausea and fear.

Marina and Julia exchange a look.

This is the moment. The starting thread that Marina will weave into a beautiful tapestry. This is the end of the truth.

Luckily for Julia, she has some experience in disarming mouse traps.

…

" _Forgetting isn't enough. You can paddle away from the memories and think they are gone. But they will keep floating back, again and again and agian. They circle you, like sharks. Until, unless, something, someone? Can do more than just cover the wound. "_

 _―_ _Sara Zarr_ _,_ _Story of a Girl_

 **. . .**

 **So I hope this chapter wasn** **'t too horrible. Again sorry.**

 **There** **'s two little nods The Magician's King in this chapter (ie. The marmite and genius iq)**

 **Also, Jane calls the memory spell Marina used** **'crude' and identifies it as likely being done by a hedge. I find this interesting because Marina know how to do magic in both the Brakebills fashion and the hedge way. We also know that she's really fucking good at it given the whole 'best student' thing. That her spell is crude makes me feel that memory spells must be really tricky and require a lot of training/practice in order to be seamless (and I suspect it's something she's done before, though, because it's something she's able to perform off the top of her head, without a reference). This also means that the way she does it would be different to how the professors do it in Brakebills. Therefore I'm not suggesting that the little mindtrip she goes on with Julia in this chapter is the norm (ie. What the professors at Brakebills do with a student, though if it is then that's even more of a violation).**

 **Honestly, I think the writers just had Jane say that to drop hints for audience but it was said so I** **'m running with it.**

 **Also, if you're interested, check out my Marina/Julia vids where I attempt to make people cry:**  
 **watch?v=JQ_sTg5Y6Xg**  
 **watch?v=Yl1MnbVCBtQ**  
 **watch?v=S-kNwZCE-3Y (a julia vid)**  
 **Say hi to me and we can cry about Marina and Julia together!**  
 **Twitter: /BonnieLextra**  
 **Tumblr:**

 **I post photomanips for this story over there**

 **post/158026449056/whos-to-say-there-arent-some-hidden-parts-of**

 **post/157648563016/really-bad-photo-manip-for-chapter-two-of-my**

 **(will be posting some for this chap soonish)**


	5. Avoidance is a Wonderful Therapy

A/N: Well **look at me - sick again! I need a new body. Who wants to trade? I will hug them.**

 **So yeah this chapter is pretty much just filler. I swear there's a plot to this story, it's just . . . Going to take a while to get there. Sorry! I mean, for the most** part **it's a recovery/character development fic. But there will be** plot **! And world building, and delving into Julia and Marina's past.**

 **Anyway, hope you enjoy.**

 **And for those of you who review, thankyou thankyou thankyou so much! This would not be possible without you. Seriously, my anxiety and lack of motivation would eat me.**

also **I made a really bad intro trailer for this fic /JrZNJh8crYI**

. . .

" _You could classify the avoider mentality as a large amount of defences rolled into one complex milieu of mechanisms to prevent any further trauma. The "I don't need you or want you" mentality isolates you from your own feelings and those of others. You live on the periphery of relationships, seeing others only as a means to an end. The abandonments from the past hurt too much that you can't sustain anything further. Why open up. There's no point. There are too many negative possibilities._

 _The crux of it is that there is an inability to love – both to feel it and to give it. It is not necessary that both are felt, or to the same degree, but one of the two is present . . . Avoiders believe that they can handle things themselves and shouldn_ _'t rely on anyone else, especially in hard times when support is needed. They believe that they should just suck up the pain and work through it themselves. . ."_

 ** _\- The Avoider Mentality and the Fear of Intimacy by Noam Lightstone_**

" _People spend entire lifetimes trying to avoid the things that have already happened."_

 **― _Silvia Hartmann_**

 **. . .**

when Marina next wakes up, there is an arm around her and she is pulled tight to somebody's chest. The knowledge alarms her and she stiffens, instantly going into panic mode. She has the spell at the back of her mind, the hand movements memorized, all she has to do is-

There's a low murmur behind her, indecipherable but familiar still, and she lets go of the breath she's been holding.

Julia.

She's in Julia's bed and it is Julia's arm around her, her breast she's pressed up against-

her hand that Marina clutches in her own.

Fuck.

She can't remember the last time she was was held by another human being, especially like this - let them fill the space at her back, wrap their arm around her, hold her in place . . .

Marina flinches.

She's standing in a kitchen not her own, and Hannibal's arms are around her, gentle, trapping, his knife cutting into her throat . . .

She shakes her head, dispelling the image.

She isn't there. She's here, in New York. In a woman named Julia Wicker's apartment. In her bedroom. In her bed. In her arms.

He would never find her here.

Relaxing some as she repeats this mantra in her head, she slowly becomes aware of another dilemma. Namely, what's led to her being cocooned in Julia's arms. The events of last night. The nightmare. The subsequent panic attack. Julia there, calm, reassuring, _caring_. Reaching out for some reason and trying to _help._

Marina shakes her head. She'll think on that later.

Right now she has to weigh up the pros and cons of erasing Julia's entire memory of the event. Or escaping the apartment and hopping a flight to Mexico before she can wake up.

Alright. That last one is ridiculous.

Or not. Mexico might be the place now that Raynard has _literally -_ she cringe - tasted her blood.

She sighs, spare hand reaching up to massage her brow. This is such a gigantic fucking shit storm. What the fuck is she supposed to do now?

Sleep.

Sleep and pretend that none of this happened. That she's back in her apartment, resting after a long night of research, Cupcake curled up beside her, wards raised and ready . . .

Safe.

Saf _er,_ rather.

Safer.

. . .

When Julia wakes up, the first thing she realizes is that it wasn't a fluke. 'It' being yesterday morning's unexpected development. Just like then, she wakes to find that she is now closer to Marina than she will ever have need or want to be. Their hands are still joined together, loosely clasped, only at some point this has been used to pull Julia across, draw her over until she's all but on top of the other woman. Her nose is buried in the back of Marina's neck, her scent filtering every inhale, sweaty skin sticking to her cheek.

She freezes. The close proximity stills her heart, urges it to race not a moment later. It takes everything in her not to push away, to escape the cloying presence of another. Reality needs time to catch up, to reassure her with irrefutable proof that this body pressed against hers is not a threat, is not _him._

She hones in on the smell of peppermint, the familiar, stale mask of cigarette smoke, and coconut conditioner - her own brand, Marina must have used it last night. The suffocating tang of copper is absent and she relaxes, just a bit.

Safe.

Thankfully, Marina appears to be asleep still, breaths steady as her stomach rises and falls under their hands. It's almost peaceful, closing her eyes and listening to the sound, feeling the reassuring motion. She gives herself a moment to be selfish, just one. To pretend that she's still asleep and disappear into the hazy comfort of this embrace. She knows as soon as she rises, life will make itself known again with all its horrors and complications.

But this is nice. Being close to someone. Without fear or disgust. Losing herself in this reassuring tangibility. She can almost forget where she is and who she's with. Almost forget what happened.

Almost feel human again.

It can't last.

She doesn't want to be like this when Marina wakes up. She suspects having a panic attack in front of someone _and_ proceeding to cuddle with that same person afterwords might be a little too much for her.

Likely there would be shouting involved. Maybe broken objects. Elevated risk of bodily harm.

Best just to avoid that all together.

So with (far too much) regret, she forces herself to rise, disentangling from the other hedge with overcautious precision. Marina sleeps on and though she can't see her face, she seems serene enough. A welcome change from last night.

Julia's still not sure what to make of that. Seeing Marina, strong, self-assured Marina, come apart like that was . . . unnerving at best. She's not sure what to do with it, this newfound knowledge, this rare glimpse past the walls she stopped wanting to climb. Does she bring it up? Ask her if she's okay? Offer to talk about it?

Somehow, she can't see that going down well.

So just leave it then. Pretend it never happened?

Something about that doesn't sit quite right either - maybe because she can still hear tormented sobs in her memory - but then neither of the options really have appeal. She feels like she should do something to help, something more. But she doesn't know what help _is_ in this situation.

What help Marina might want. What help she _needs_ but might not want _._

And then there's the confusion of wanting to help, given their history, hell given everything. Julia isn't exactly in the best space for helping anyone at the moment. All she wants to focus on is Reynard. Finding him and destroying him. Anything outside of that is negligible, has to be.

And yet here this is, nagging at her, spurning her apathy.

Sighing, she checks on Marina one last time. Still sleeping.

Julia's eyes narrow.

The red patches from last night that cover her neck have darkened to a grotesque palate of mold and purple. Some have the chilling impression of fingerprints. She can picture Reynard's calloused hands - so warm, so gentle once - wrapping around the delicate throat. The burn of their squeeze, nails digging in, air cutting off. The desperation for breath, terror as the grip only constricted and darkness edged its way in.

He would have gotten off on the power of it. Holding someone down, controlling their very life with just just the tightening and loosening of his hands. Those same hands that had clenched in her hair, scalp tearing-

Julia's stomach flips and she raises a hand to her mouth to keep back the bile. Another twist and she's running for the toilet, ignoring Marina's startled breath as she wakes.

So it's going to be one of those days.

. . .

" _Survivors of complex trauma learn that people are not a source of comfort and that they are safer when they are alone. This is learnt during the aftermath of abuse episodes, when the survivor was alone and momentarily safe. The sense of relief and safety experienced when alone can become conditioned wherein the default setting in the presence of stressful or aversive experiences is to withdraw and be alone. Thus, rather than reach out for help and support, survivors are more likely to hide away, withdraw and become invisible. Survivors quickly learn that being visible can prompt further abuse, while being invisible can keep them safe. This dichotomy of visibility versus invisibility is a common feature in survivors of complex trauma who yearn to be seen yet need to hide to feel safe."_

 ** _\- Counselling Skills for Working with Trauma - Healing From Child Sexual Abuse, Sexual Violence and Domestic Abuse by Christiane Sanderson_**

. . .

She's woken by the sound of stampeding feet and the smack of a toilet lid. Then puking. Lots of puking.

Groaning, Marina rolls away and slams a pillow down over her head. Fucking Julia.

Or maybe it's Martin.

The thought of the great musical oaf succumbing to food poisoning is almost enough to make her smile. Could she really be so lucky?

A choke and faintly feminine gasp from the bathroom is quick to answer, less she fall into the the devastating trap of optimism.

She scowls and tugs the pillow harsher against her, trying to suppress the light throbbing in her head that survived the night.

Probably she should check on Julia. Make sure she's not coughing up a lung or something.

Probably.

But that would involve sharing space with Julia. Spending time with her. Possibly exchanging words.

None of which she wants to be doing after what happened last night.

In fact, it would be a great boon to learn that the other hedge had transferred to the opposite side of the globe and would be unlikely to ever darken her doorway again. Nice knowing you. Let's not keep in touch!

A panic attack.

A fucking panic attack.

She hates panic attacks.

They're right at the top of the extensively long list of things deserving of her loathing.

You can't run from a panic attack, can't fight it. All you can do is endure, completely at its mercy.

Fuck.

She growls her shame and frustration into the mattress.

Fuck!

That wasn't supposed to happen

She wasn't prepared for it. Wasn't prepared at all.

In the past year, her nightmares have dwindled down to scattered ambushes here and there, barely worth mentioning. And there's only been one setback since she got her memories back. She was even beginning to hope that they might stop all together. After all, her demons were dead and buried. What power could they have over her now?

 _(too much)_

And the _panic attack?_ What the fuck was that?

Those _had_ stopped. When's the last time she even had one?

She has to think about it - like all memories she'd rather forget, this one is shrouded over, hidden away. It takes some work to wrestle it free.

After Brakebills. During that first year, when all those healing stitches she'd so carefully woven had been mercilessly plucked undone. Not even the thread or holes were left to her, just a gaping wound never tended to. Raw and bleeding, halfway to becoming unbearable. Infected.

She'd still thought he might find her then - Hannibal. Could no longer remember that he couldn't. That she'd made sure she was safe. From one monster, at least.

 _She wakes from a nightmare of him cradling her to his chest, even as he drags the blade across her throat. No hesitation. There was a comfort in his arms, even as she wanted to recoil. Even as the pain ripped her open and the terror gushed free._

 _She wakes gasping, choking on blood she can still taste only to see the monster of her dreams come to life, hovering over her._

 _A phantom, nothing more. The trick of a mind addled/twisted with sleep and terror._

 _But her brain doesn_ _'t register this fast enough and the adrenalin kicks in. Panic takes over._

 _She can_ _'t remember what happens then, how long the attack lasted or how it ended. Only that it did._

 _When she comes out of it, her bedsheets are soaked and her skin is hot and sticky with sweat, tears and_ _ghost blood_ _. She wants to clean up but can_ _'t make herself move. Her body weighs too heavy and every command she throws out sinks back down, into her mind like quicksand._

 _She manages to blink and breathe and that seems an achievement._

 _It_ _'s only after a minute or two of lying there that she notices the vibration against her side, the discomfort of fur sticking to her moist skin. Purring fills her hearing. Lifting up the covers for inspection, she finds Cupcake curled against her, eyes closed in apparent contentment. As the blankets rise and some light filters in, one eye slits open and she hisses._

 _Marina drops the covers._

 _She forgot that the little beast crawled in with her last night. She_ _'s learnt that it's best to allow this most_ _unhygienic_ _behavior as anything less results in scratching at her arm until she relents - and those cla_ _ws are no joke_ _. It_ _'s easier, not to mention quicker, just to skip all that and jump straight to surrender. Even if she does hate to loose a fight._

 _It_ _'s a wonder the cat escaped_ _her . . . episode undisturbed_ _. But that_ _'s Cupcake - she doesn't get up on anyone's time but her own. A lesson that left even more scratches emblazoned on her skin._

 _She smooths a hand across her fur for now, kneading the sensitive spot behind her ears. The purring amplifies and the sound and rhythmic motion begin to soothe her racing heart._

 _As the minutes wear on, the tension eases out of her, bit by bit. She edges down and places her head beside the fluffy body, careful not to let any light in. Flattening her ear against the warmth of her chest, she closes her eyes._ Thump, thump, thump . . .

 _She_ _'s done this before after a bad dream. The continuous sound of Cupcake's beating heart tends to calm her like nothing else, not even alcohol. She closes her eyes and inhales the musky sent, allowing her senses to become consumed by the only person she loves._

Thump, thump, thump

 _Exhale._

Thump, thump, thump

 _Inhale_

Thump, thump, thump

 _Exhale._

 _It_ _'s peaceful. Reminiscent of times when she might have been happy. Maybe this_ is _happiness. Out of the grips of her punishing psyche. Safe in an apartment armored with wards. Alone but for a creature whose love won_ _'t hurt her. Peace or happiness. One of the two. Maybe this is it._

 _(more than you deserve)_

The memory doesn't bring her peace or happiness now. It's sharp and clawing and makes her want to vomit or cry or break things.

There'd been no Cupcake to help her last night. There would never be a Cupcake to help her again.

 _(don_ _'t)_

She scratches at the still healing cuts on her arm, closes her eyes and pushes the feeling _out._

There was no Cupcake. But there was Julia. And she's still not sure how she feels about that (still not sure if it was a blessing or a curse)

She _saw_ her like that. Saw her at her weakest. No-one has ever seen her like that. No-one ever should.

But Julia did.

And she _hates_ her for it.

Hates her own body even more for betraying her.

A _panic attack_.

She should have pulled away. The very second Julia moved to help her she should have fought her off. Slammed down the mask and forced her breaths to steady. She should have-

But she couldn't.

Because in that moment she wasn't Marina. In the eternal chaos of those minutes, she was Her again. Abigail. She was the girl whose father promised that everything was going to be okay as he held a knife to her throat - and wanted so badly to believe him. She was the girl who would seek out any comfort she could find, even in the arms of one who might kill her.

In that moment she clung to Julia's presence, to the escape she offered in her steady voice and reassuring gaze. She needed something to ground her, to help pull her out and Julia became that. She offered herself up for the task without hesitation, no judgment in her gaze as she talked Marina through something so simple as _breathing._

For a minute there, it was even kind of . . . nice? To have someone there. Someone to care for her.

Dazed and frantic as she was, she almost gave into the urge to lean forward, to fall into Julia. To seek out her warmth and the comfort of her body. To see if those arms really would come up to hold her like they appeared to promise.

 _(they did, they did, during the night they did)_

It's been a long time sing someone's hugged her.

There'd been a brief one from the journalist, Freddie Lounds, before she'd left, short and loose enough not to provoke panic. A polite gesture of farewell, little more.

But the last person to really _hug_ her, to wrap her in their arms and make her feel some semblance of safety . . . was Hannibal.

It was that which made her freeze up, to draw away and right those shields. To put an end to the comfort that Julia offered and retreat behind sturdy walls of ice. When she rolled over and shut her eyes, she thought that would be the end of it. Hoped.

But then Julia's hand found hers, breached the distance between them and wrapped around her.

She didn't know what to do. Her mind was clear. It screamed at her to pull away, to escape. It fretted over the dangers of letting the contact stand, of allowing such weakness.

But that part of her still lost in pain and fear, lost in the vestiges of Abigail Hobbs, craved the connection. The world was still spinning, still violently circling around her, and she just wanted something to hold onto, to try and keep it still.

She was too tired to fight it.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow she would shake off the touch and pretend it had never happened. Rebuild her walls and paint on her mask. Tomorrow, she would be strong again.

But she had already shown such weakness, so until then what was a little more?

Marina squeezed the hand and drifted into a dreamless sleep.

The shower turns on.

Despite her still aching body and the heavyness to her eyelids, she resolves to get up. Best to get dressed now whilst Julia is otherwise occupied. That way she won't still be in bed when she comes out.

A cursory glance at her wrists reveals that dark bruises have formed over night and common sense tells her that the same must be true for her neck. _Fantastic_. It's been a long time since she's had to cover up that part of her body as a necessity and the realization that she'll have to do just that does not improve her mood. Quite the opposite.

The turtleneck she was wearing the day before is ruined with blood and holes and of no help - she'll get rid of it later, maybe hold a bonfire of sorts.

She searches Julia's closet for anything that'll make do, about to all but give up when she at last rescues a near identical black turtleneck from the depths. It's a fortunate find. The woman doesn't even own a single scarf. Who doesn't have scarves?

You know, except Marina. But there are extenuating circumstances for that.

It's not an option - and if it was she'd be a blind idiot to take it - but what she wants right then, more than anything, is to be back in her apartment. Alone. To escape the stifling presence of Julia and Martin. To reinstitute a safe circumference of at least ten meters between her and every other being.

Knowing that the farthest distance between her and somebody else is no more than that of a room makes her (symptom of anxiety). Her eyes keep flicking to the entrance to check that no-one is about to step through, her ears honing in on the barest of sounds.

When Julia leaves the bathroom, she doesn't waste any time in shoving past her and locking the door. Rude but she hasn't cared for manners in a long time.

 _. . ._

" _Being in a state of denial is a_

 _universally human response to_

 _situations which threaten to_

 _overwhelm. People who were abused_

 _as children sometimes carry their_

 _denial like precious cargo without a_

 _port of destination. It enabled us to_

 _survive our childhood experiences, and often we still live in survival mode decades beyond the actual abuse. We protect ourselves to excess because we learned abruptly and painfully that no one else would._ _"_

 **― _Sarah E. Olson, Becoming One: A Story of Triumph Over Dissociative Identity Disorder_**

 _. . ._

Someone has healed the cracks in the mirror. A small part of her, the one she can usually keep quiet, wants to lash out and break it all over again. It is like a raging tiger locked in a cage, before all the fight has given out to despair. That savage part of her. She buries it down so deep, always so deep, forces her ears to be deaf to its snarls.

It is the very opposite of control.

Gazing at her reflection, she runs her hands over her neck out of habit. Between the sensitive hiss of bruised flesh, she feels the phantom rise of knitted skin. Sometimes, she wonders why she even bothered to get rid of the scar when it's all the mirror ever shows her anyway. But hiding her deformities has never been about her own gaze, only what other people might see.

 _-_ _'All I need is a scarf to hide' -_

And now not even that.

Ignoring the pounding in her head, She rinses her mouth out with listerine but the taste of blood and god still lingers in her consciousness. It will remain there for a good long while, if the past has taught her anything.

Her throat feels tender and aches more than she thinks it has a right to, an echo of times even more nightmarish. It's a good thing she's not feeling particularly chatty today. Her vocal chords would crucify her.

The bruises glare at her and she raises the turtleneck back up to cover them, suddenly queasy. It doesn't help that she can't actually remember how she got them. Or she can but only in the vaguest of flashes. Around about the third aneurysm her memory begins to cloud, becoming disjointed. She can feel his hands around her neck, his breath scorching her face, the reflexive gag she fights back - but she can't remember the context. The full picture is lost to her.

It reminds her of the broken reflections of her time living under Hannibal's roof. How there are images and sensations tangled in her memory that still don't make any sense to her.

A mercy.

Julia's medicine cabinet is well stocked. The bottle of aspirin has been moved since its last use and she has to search it out amongst the sleeping pills, anti bacterial ointment, ibuprofen, cough medicine, anti-depressants and anti-anxiety meds. She turns over the packets of the last two with casual curiosity. 450mg of Wellbutrin and 30mg of Lexapro. Not brands she's familiar with. Still mostly full and the date on the box reads from that embarrassing stint Julia pulled in rehab - disgust coils in her gut at the reminder.

Both times she was in Port Haven, they tried to medicate her. The first time she fought them off with icy rebukes and steely resistance (it helped that Hannibal and Dr. Bloom were ready to support her in her decision). She hadn't wanted to be like them. Those other girls that haunted the hallways of the facility like ghosts, who filled up group with their brokenness and despair. Girls reduced to nothing but their victimhood.

She wasn't one of them. She didn't _want_ to be one of them. She was fine. Apart from the nightmares, she was better than fine. She was great. The perfect picture of mental health.

She was in the process of selling her house, had scattered her mother's ashes and she was working on publishing a book about herself. She had even adjusted her once future dreams and goals to account for this minor hiccup in her life - none of the colleges she applied to were an option anymore but there were other ones out there, ones that didn't know her name, _better_ ones even; and then she would join the FBI, make something out of this terrible experience like people were always preaching about. She was handling it.

She was fine.

Not like those girls who popped pills by the dozen.

All she needed was a scarf and she was good to go. Normal again. Fine.

She didn't belong there. She never would.

The second time she was at Port Haven, passing for fine no longer mattered. Nothing did. Her mind was a little busy being completely fucked up for that. Suddenly she was the girl that others looked at with contempt, as a way to measure how well they were doing by ('so maybe I'm starving myself to death but at least I don't talk to shadows'). Maybe it was the missing ear that put them off the most. But probably it was her tendency to forget where the fuck she was that really wrote her off. The night terrors didn't help, of course. Or the police that dropped by every other day, still unconvinced that she knew as little as she claimed.

In those first few weeks, all she wanted was to be normal again. To stop waking with screams stuck in her throat. To not have a panic attack the next time they introduced red paints in art therapy. To stop losing bits of her day, to remember the hours she'd forgotten in that long (but short) seven months. To stop seeing Will's ghost in the empty spaces around her, or Hannibal's calculating eyes in the male psychiatrist who ran group time.

When a prescription was issued, she was almost too eager to take it.

But drugs are tricky and finding the right ones for her proved to be more difficult than anyone implied. None of them do much good and most bring with them a surplus of side-effects that just make everything a hundred times worse. Apparently, it can take years to find the right fit. And some people never really do.

Well, fuck that.

What had she really been expecting, anyway? It's not her brain that's the problem, it's her life. It was the _world._ It was every single person around her, sharks circling, deers waiting to be shot down.

No prescription could change that.

Anxiety meds to soothe her? Why? Why would she shut off the fear when it happened to be one of the only things keeping her alive? The only thing she had that could warn of a threat.

Because the threats were _real._ This wasn't just her fight-or-flight response acting up at harmless occurrences, this was it reacting to the fact that any person, _any_ person, could be the next one to take a knife to her.

And besides, she soon found alcohol worked a hell of a lot better when it came to clouding shit she'd rather not feel or think about. It was reliable like that.

She wonders if medication worked any better for Julia. Doubts it. Again, the problem wasn't with the chemicals in her head. It was with life fucking things up as it always did. It was with magic.

She scowls and rakes her hair back into a bun, spies the taint of darkness under her fingernails and stills. Holds them up for inspection. Dried blood. Missed in the cleaning last night.

\- she scrubs and scrubs, got to get it off, so little time, can't let them see, what will they do if they see, destroy her, destroy her, she's already destroyed, ruined, just a deer, just a deer, come out, why won't it come out, out damn spot, out I say -

She grits her teeth and forces the tap to burning. The boil of water is nothing like the sting of bleach and she breathes deep, wrestling her hands clean.

 _. . ._

" _Anti-predator adaptations are mechanisms developed through evolution that assist prey organisms in their constant struggle against predators. Throughout the animal kingdom, adaptations have evolved for every stage of this struggle._

 _The first line of defence consists in avoiding detection, through mechanisms such as camouflage, living underground, or nocturnality . . ._

 _Animals may avoid becoming prey by living out of sight of predators, whether in caves, underground, or by being nocturnal._ _"_

 ** _\- Anti-Predator Adaptions, Wikipedia_**

 _. . ._

It's both a relief and a cause for suspicion when Julia doesn't bring it up. She waits on edge for the reprieve to end and the hammer to fall, for the events of last night to be pushed forward into the light of day. There's blatant curiosity when she looks at her, and maybe even some concern - because Julia's one of those idiots who actually _cares_ about people - but she doesn't mention it. Marina only starts to settle when she realizes that she's not _going_ to mention it.

Maybe because she understands.

 _-_ _"it's okay. I get them too'-_

The confession still surprises her. Not the contents. It's not shocking to learn that the rape has left its share of nasty side effects. But that Julia shared it with her. Weakness isn't the same thing to her as it is to Marina, she doesn't harbor that overbearing fear and disgust. She's only just now beginning to learn the consequences. But she doubts Julia likes being vulnerable any more than her, opening herself up to attack. Probably no-one likes that, but it comes more easily to some than others. There are those who don't even give it a thought. Marina and Julia are not among them.

Exposure is a state to avoid, at all costs.

Unless it's with someone you trust.

For Marina, that list stops and ends with a cat. For Julia, she supposes it might include Quasimodo and possibly even her family. She doesn't know the situation there. But it'll include more than a cat. Because Julia cares about people. She trusts people.

And Marina's never been one of them.

So it means something that Julia ignored that last night. That she was able to get past it, to lower her defenses.

All just to make _her_ feel better.

She supposes it could be guilt. Or shame. There seems to be a lot of that shadowing her lately.

Maybe a hint of care.

At any rate, it's something she can use, if she wants to.

Doubtful she'll need to but she likes to keep a record of all possible advantages and disadvantages, especially in terms of other people. Never know when it might come in handy.

They spend the afternoon tiptoeing around each other. Julia is aware - and considerate - enough to keep her distance. Even so, the apartment is suffocating. Wherever she goes, she can't escape the reminders that she's not really alone. Apart from the fact that Julia's junk is everywhere, Marina can still feel the hum of her energy on the periphery of her consciousness, hear the shuffling of papers, the pacing of feet. Martin crowds her in his boredom and even when she escapes him, she can't block out the whistling and singing.

All she wants is to be alone.

But there is no alone.

Not if she wants to survive.

Stomach turning, she puts down the third book that's failed to arrest her attention. She should help Julia with all that Reynard brainstorming of hers - the brunette was beginning to look frustrated last she walked past - but that would require actually being in the same room with her. Next to her. _Talking_ to her.

Also, Reynard is _not_ a problem she wants to give a thought to today (the impression of his face attacking from her memory leaves a tremor in her hands that she's determined to keep hidden).

Besides, she doesn't really have any ideas beyond cutting off his cock and feeding it to him - the logistics of which she's admittedly a little vague on.

Despite their healthy avoidance of each other, last night is still clearly at the forefront of their minds. The avoidance, if anything, only seems to strengthen this. She knows that if she doesn't find something to keep her mind occupied she's going to go crazy with thinking about it. Julia suggests ordering takeout for dinner and that settles it. She hasn't had a decent meal since Martin kidnapped her - there's surprise in realizing that was only three days ago. Her body is healing and she's not going to make the job harder by attacking the collagen in her skin with sugar.

Besides, sugar makes her antsy and she doesn't need any more of that.

She elbows her way past Martin - who seems to be performing some kind of culinary experiment with ice-cream, marshmallows and Twinkies, she grimaces - into the kitchen and begins her search. The fridge and pantry are pretty bare and hold little in the way of anything nutritious. It's disappointing but not unexpected. Still, she manages to scrounge up some (very sad) vegetables, pasta, a can of pureed tomatoes and beans.

It'll do.

She spends the rest of the afternoon cooking dinner and deflecting Martin's attempts to 'help' - no, we are _not_ adding three cups of sugar. She can't wait for Julia to stop being an idiot and get rid of this guy.

Her skin crawls with his close proximity - if he's aware of the meaning of personal space then he's discarded it as entirely irrelevant. Every time he inches closer, her spine stiffens and her thoughts fog over, her senses narrowing to the overpowering stink of his aftershave. Heart thudding, palms sweating, her feet itch to run.

She thinks of her bedroom in her apartment, tucked away. Cupcake curled up on her pillow, indignant at any attempts to move her. The wards tracing a circle around her bed, ready to disturb her sleep at the slightest threat of intrusion.

She might even feel safe there.

(nowhere is safe)

Everyone feels like a threat to her right now. But this man actually _is_ a threat.

More than capable of killing her, all that's missing is motive - and she doesn't doubt that he could find one easily.

She'll bite her lip and fight through it, purposefully relaxing her stance and loosening her grip on whatever kitchen instrument in her hand. He'll smirk and lean back, granting her some of that space she hungers for. He knows exactly what he's doing.

It's a relief when Julia arrives to take him off her hands. The kitchen knife was growing far too tempting to pass up and she's not sure driving it through the bastard's hand would end well for any of them. She's not an idiot. She may not know who he is or where Julia found him but she does know he's powerful. More powerful than her. Maybe even more powerful than Julia. She can feel the heightened magic coming off him in waves, noxious, suffocating, battering up against the wards of her mind _(let me in, let me in)_.

It's a good thing she's used to cooking beside people who might kill her.

She's pleased to discover that what Julia's kitchen may lack in actual food it makes up for in spell ingredients - she at least has her priorities right. It doesn't take long for Marina to scramble together a decent healing paste for the cuts on her arm - now hidden beneath a sweater. She didn't miss the looks it had garnered from Julia last night - that same frustrating curious concern - and she was resolved not to let it stand. Rubbing the paste into her skin, she mutters some Old Dutch and feels the tingling itch of pain that signifies her skin knitting back together. Cleaning the smelly paste away reveal an arm as good as new and she sighed over the fact that she couldn't do the same for her hand.

 _(not now, not now, not now)_

 _. . ._

" _Alternatively, prey animals may ward off attack, whether by advertising the presence of strong defences in aposematism, by mimicking animals which do possess such defences, by startling the attacker, by signalling to the predator that pursuit is not worthwhile, by distraction, by using defensive structures such as spines, and by living in a group. . . . Pursuit-deterrent signals are behavioral signals used by prey that convince predators not to pursue them. For example, gazelles stot, jumping high with stiff legs and an arched back. This is thought to signal to predators that they have a high level of fitness and can outrun the predator. As a result, predators may choose to pursue a different prey that is less likely to outrun them . . ."_

 ** _\- Anti-predator adaptation, Wikipedia_**

 _. . ._

Growing up with Kathryn Wicker for a mother has given Julia a keen awareness of the fluctuating levels of hostility in others - and when it's best to enlist the strategy of avoidance. Today, Marina is setting off all her alarms. She keeps a wide birth.

From what little she's seen of her, space seems to be what Marina wants most of all. So Julia backs off, keeps away and pretends she doesn't see the few times the other woman falters in her presence.

Still, the questions gnaw at her. She's not sure if it's concern or just morbid curiosity, not sure of much of anything when it comes to her feelings these days, but she can't stop wondering about last night.

It's in her nature to poke and prod at problems until they bleed truth, untangle the intricate details of their working for study. Her projects for school were always the most extensive and well-researched. She hates to be confronted with information she doesn't understand and can't let it go until she does. Magic was like that.

The thing is, Marina isn't a problem or a project or even some new philosophical novel. Poking and prodding in this case probably isn't going to achieve the optimal result. Most likely it will just make her really, really pissed. Julia can't just come out and ask what the hell last night was about either because that would be far too honest - for both of them. And diagrams and highlighters probably aren't going to help much, though she'll keep them on hand just in case.

Julia's tried and true attack-it-head-on approach is _not_ Marina compatible.

So she's resigned herself to watching. And waiting. And listening.

Keeping on the alert for any signs or words that could help add a little transparency to the situation.

To be fair, she should just forget about it. Whatever it is, it's Marina's business, not hers. Whatever skeletons she has under lock and key in her closet aren't for Julia to dig out. She's got enough on her plate to worry about - far greater, dickier fish to fry. She doesn't have the time or the head space for anyone else's problems.

Then again, the more time she spends thinking about Marina's problems, the less time she has to think about her own . . .

Well.

That does sound tempting.

But still, nothing to be done about it. She can't ask and Marina won't initiate. Best just to forget about it and move onto their vast and growing array of alternative headaches - it's not like she's starved for choice.

' _Daddy, please.'_

Julia cringes at the taste of ink, pulling the head of the pen out of her mouth and sparing it a scorned glance. It's been thoroughly chewed, no doubt about that.

Chucking it into the nearest bin, she levitates a glass of water into her hand to wash her mouth out. Her taste buds may be taking a nap for the most part but they still manage to groan their displeasure.

It's that one statement. That one piece of information Marina let slip.

It won't let her go.

And she can't shake the feeling that she _knows_ what it pertains to. That the mystery isn't a mystery at all and the answer is right smack in front of her.

It's distracting.

Which is actually a good thing. Especially when her brainstorming around fox traps hasn't progressed much beyond a sad little bubble with the word 'trap' in it. And there's that one other circle on the page - 'knife?' - that gives her a headache every time she looks at it. What _is_ she going to do without her nifty god killing blade? Talk him to death?

Maybe Reynard has a hummus allergy . . .

On the bright side, the alert on her phone for any new activity involving Alexis Bledel and Lauren Graham has been blessedly silent - she got worried for a second there when she couldn't find Martin in the house after getting dressed, and his only explanation upon returning was that he'd been out 'amusing' himself. She shudders to think about what that could involve.

Martin had probably been one of those boys who thought using a magnifying glass to incinerate ants made for a jolly good time.

She tires and throws her pen down, pushing away from the table and all its frustrating contents.

 _Coffee. Needed. Now._

For the majority of the afternoon, she's kept away from the kitchen. Marina laid claim to it some time after lunch and it's in everyone's best interests that she's not disturbed. As long as she's occupying herself with culinary pursuits, she's not breaking any more of Julia's mirrors. Or that's the hope.

Whatever she's doing, she can't deny that it smells alright. Food doesn't hold much interest for her at the moment but she's still somewhat curious to see what Marina has made.

When she gets there, Martin is at the counter decked out in oven mitts, apron and chef's hat - _where did he even-?_ He's cutting up carrots and Marina is watching the actions carefully, gaze sharp and suspicious. If he screws up what he's doing, Julia entertains the thought that Marina might take that knife and turn it on him. She should probably stay close, just in case.

Neither of them will be of any use to her if they kill each other.

Also, who the fuck cuts up carrots whilst wearing oven mitts?

"What are you cooking?"

Marina doesn't risk taking her scrutiny off Martin to spare her a glance. Julia notices a further tightening to her shoulders, though, that suggests she's fully aware of her and that she's less than agreeable to the intrusion. "Pasta Fagioli."

"I . . . don't know what that is."

The redhead sighs. It's loaded with exasperation and no small amount of disdain. "It's a classic Italian dish made with pasta, beans and vegetables. Not my best version but your fridge and pantry are like a college boy's. It's disgusting by the way."

"Hasn't really been my top priority." Somehow, she manages to tone down the venom and bitterness by a whopping twenty percent.

"Yes, well, I think we can all agree that it should be," Martin cuts in, raising a slice of carrot to his lips. "This time has more food than it knows what to do with. It's marvelous. It would be a shame not to take advantage of that."

Marina smacks him on the shoulder as he finishes the carrot. "Stop eating my food."

He scowls down at her and Julia can see the hand still gripping the knife clench.

It's a chilling reminder of just how dangerous he is. For all his love of musical theater and chickflicks, he is not harmless. He would kill them in an instant if it suited his purposes. Well, he'd kill Marina. Julia is still protected by their Word as Bond. Hopefully. They didn't exactly negotiate what would happen if her part of the deal - the knife - went missing.

Though, if he's suddenly a free agent, he hasn't dropped any hints.

And the whole continuing to help them part makes her think that he isn't.

Unless he's just sticking around for her food. And her TV. Speaking of. . .

"I have more Gilmore Girls episodes if you want at 'em," she intervenes before things can escalate into violence.

He actually looks conflicted. Apparently, choosing between annoying her and annoying Marina is a tough call.

"Very well." He reluctantly releases the knife which Marina is quick to snatch up like an stolen child - Julia tries not to stare when the sleeve of her turtleneck rises up for a second, revealing an angry purple brand encircling her wrist. He grins down at the older hedge knowingly and discards the oven mitts and apron. As they hit the counter, the apron morphs into a recognizable kitchen towel - no doubt its original form. He keeps the chef's hat. "I am curious to find out whether young Rory will rise to her full potential and cut off Jess's cock for attempting to take sexual advantage of her."

Julia closes her eyes as they leave the kitchen. She's going to need another memory wipe after all this is over. Or maybe just the sweet oblivion of death.

 _. . ._

 _"Her life was one endless loop that she raced around, with_ steep _banked curves so she could never change or slow down. It just delivered her back to herself, over and over and over."_

 ** _― Chris Cleave, Gold_**

 _. . ._

She spends her time in the shower drilling herself on paltry spell tricks, running her hands through techniques she's long since mastered. The low level stuff is still easy as pie and it's a relief to cross those off her list. But the higher up she goes, the more fingers required, the harder things get. Spells that should have been simple suddenly require extra energy and concentration to make up for what's missing, or else fail all together. The drying spell she performs on her hair instead catches a strand on fire and she has to rush back under the spray of the shower to put it out. At least her flushed skin when she comes out again makes the bruises on her wrists and neck harder to discern. Tomorrow, she'll make up some more paste to solve that.

She knew this was a possibility. The moment she realized Julia with her useless god powers couldn't heal her finger, she knew - practicing magic wasn't going to be the same.

She just didn't think it would fuck things up this much.

That soundproofing spell she learnt in her first year out of Brakebills. It was easy. A part of ward magic, which she's always excelled at. It's one of those spells that just comes naturally to her, without thought.

And now she can't even perform the first hand position.

Fuck.

She might have been at Reynard's mercy before this but now she really is powerless against him. Until she finds a way to work around an absent finger - and she _will -_ she's all but prey to any passing predator. She's still got more going for her than most of the waste that frequents safe houses but that's not really saying much. She wouldn't stand a chance against Martin. Or Julia.

If he turns on her again, if _she_ chooses to turn on her now . . . what hope will she have?

She wouldn't even win a fight against Julia's ridiculous friends in this state.

She's defenseless. Surrounded on all sides by beings more powerful than her. Most of whom either want her dead or would be indifferent to her passing.

How did this happen? How did she get here _again_?

After all she's done, all her work-

She was never supposed to be the weakest person in a room. Not ever again.

Her only hope is that Julia ranks her high enough on her list of priorities to warrant protection. Though Marina shudders at the notion. To rely on anyone for that goes against her strongest instincts. She knows how it ends. Them failing. Them betraying her. Them dead.

Her: bleeding out on a kitchen floor.

Not again.

She can't rely on Julia for anything. Whatever the other woman's intentions, pure or not, they won't mean a damn thing when the devil finally comes to collect. Intentions change. Reality happens. People let you down.

No, she just has to work fast, work hard. All her spare time needs to go towards training her mind and body to cope with this loss and perform without grief. She's not powerful right now? She'll _make_ herself powerful. Won't be the first time. Won't even be the first time she's had to relearn magic.

Piece of cake.

The nightmares, of course, are also a problem. She can't afford to have any more panic attacks in front of Julia. Or, god forbid, blurt some critical piece of information out in her sleep. She would sleep somewhere else but right now Julia's room is the only place that seems even half-way off limits to Martin - and she'd rather the other hedge witness her at her worst than that walking dick.

Decided, Marina focuses on the mirror and stares at her reflection, her attention narrows to the pale blue of her eyes, foreground receding, pupils dilating. She begins to feel herself sink . . .

Tomorrow, she'll think of a better plan. But for now . . .

She traces patterns with either hand on her temples, slowly, careful. Precise little runes that she knows by heart. As she does, something starts building in her mind, flimsy and thin, but tangible. She grows it up, closes her eyes and breathes her relief as she feels the barrier stretch across.

For now, she's more than earned herself a fucking dreamless sleep.

 _. . ._

 _"Avoidance is a wonderful therapy."_  
 _― **Maggie Stiefvater** , **Linger**_

 _. . ._

They don't talk about it. They go about their day, mostly separate but sometimes coming together, and they don't talk about it. Marina pretends it never happened and Julia . . . Julia lets her, she's familiar with the need that drives that kind of pretending.

Marina makes them dinner which is surprisingly delicious - 'I had a good teacher,' she says, mouth twisting into something ugly - and Julia cleans up afterwords. It's all very domestic.

Martin puts on West Side Story and is singing along within the first five minutes, at which point Marina makes the timely announcement that she knows a soundproofing charm. Julia could have kissed her.

It's after they retreat to the bedroom to perform the spell that they run into an obstacle. And it's not a small one. The last time Marina worked magic of this level, she was in full possession of all her fingers, and the missing appendage is making it impossible to form the right hand positions.

Julia watches, chest sinking, as the woman grows more and more frustrated in her movements. By the time she reaches out a hand to still her, Marina's cheeks are flushed and there's a suspicious gleam to her eyes.

 _(See? See what you cause? The result of your actions?)_

"Talk me through what I have to do."

In the past, Marina proved herself to a be an adept teacher. Patient and with just the right blend of tough and encouraging. Also, she never takes any bullshit.

They can do this.

By the time Julia masters the spell, though, she counts herself lucky that she still has all limbs attached, if not the corner of her left eyebrow. A pissed Marina does not a patient teacher make. The senior hedge grunts her approval but doesn't wait around any longer than that, storming off into the bathroom, door slamming shut behind her.

She's in there for over an hour, and Julia really has to pee.

There's hope. It was only one finger and that can be worked around. It'll just take time to learn how. Maybe there's even something magic can do, to lesson the damage.

Martin has _extra_ fingers, so it's obviously not impossible. And Penny got his hands back - though _they_ weren't eaten by a fox god. Julia grimaces and resolves not to think about it.

(she elects to ignore the fact that both these things happened in Fillory. And they're not in Fillory. And she has no intention of ever going back to Fillory)

When Marina finally emerges from the bathroom, her hair is dripping wet down her back and she's clad in only a towel. A very short one.

Once again she failed to take her pajamas in with her.

Julia swallows, looks away.

At this point, she has to be doing it on purpose. The old mess with Julia routine. She always got such a kick out of that.

"Your hot water's out."

Of course it is.

Closing her eyes with a sigh, she elects to ignore that - on account of the whole fox-ate-my-finger thing.

The Beast chooses this moment to poke his head in. Unfortunately. "We're also out of Lucky Charms. Julia, be a dear and fetch some more."

You're _the one who can travel anywhere at will_

When did her life become this?

She looks at Marina for help, or simply some well-earned pity, but receives only a callous shrug in response. "You're the one who wanted to keep him." There's not a trace of remorse in her voice, and no small amount of pleasure at her suffering.

God help her.

Stalking over, Julia shuts the door in his face. "Get it yourself." Mercifully, the charm cuts off any protest he might - most assuredly would - have given.

Right, problem one: solved.

Resolving to skip showering for that night - seeing as she has no desire to freeze to death, yet - she retreats to the bathroom to change and get ready for bed. Though, apparently not quick enough. She catches a glimpse of too much flesh as a towel is dropped before she hastily shuts the door on it.

She's never been all that comfortable with nudity - her mum of the opinion that it was just a hop, skip and a jump away from joining a satanic cult. After leaving home, she's mostly been able to shake off the worst of her teachings but since Reynard-

Well. It's like all the demons of her childhood have risen up for another bite. The other day, when picking out an outfit, she found herself running each item of clothing past the checklist she'd started developing when she was five; the one that ensured she would meet her mother's approval without too much trouble - there'd been a phase during her later teens when she'd intentionally gone against the rulebook just to get a rise out of the older woman. It didn't make sense. She hasn't seen her mother in almost two years and has no intention of doing so for at least another five (though she'll be lucky if she just gets one). Not to mention, she doesn't give a fuck about clothes or what she wears. Most days it's a trial just to put together the energy to sift through her closet and pull something on.

But the procedure was . . . comforting, almost. Familiar, definitely. For five whole minutes, she thought about nothing but the clothes under her gaze and the checklist at the back of her mind.

A respite.

When Julia exits the bathroom, Marina is already curled up in bed (not Julia's side this time) and feigning sleep.

No, they don't talk about it.

But later, when they're both in bed, minutes dragging on, Julia extends a hand and Marina takes it. When they wake in the morning, they're wrapped up in each other once more. There are no nightmares.

 _. . ._

 _"We're all drowning, but don't say it out loud."_  
 _― **Marty Rubin**_

 _ **. . .**_

 **A/N: Another reference to the books here with Julia's medication.**


	6. Darkness

**A/N: So I'm going to start this off by saying that I'm really, really sorry for how long it's been since my last update. That's really sucky of me and I apologize. But I do have a good excuse! Or in my mind a good excuse. Unfortunately, both my physical and mental health have taken a downturn this year and are continuing to get worse so updates still aren't going to be regular (sorry!) but I'm going to try extra hard to get chapters out. Hospitals and doctor visits also sap a lot of the energy I would normally put towards writing so that's a pain.**

 **Fair warning, this chapter is extremely rough. I've only proofread it one and half times (as opposed to my usual anxiety ridden dozen) but I figured it was probably just best to get it out to you guys instead of keeping you waiting. Hopefully it's not too disjointed either. I've had some problems with thinking coherently and memory these past couple of weeks and I know it's affected my writing.**  
 **It's also been split in half. The second part will probably be up in a few days since I haven't finished it. I thought that way you'd at least get something instead of waiting for me to finish it so I could post it as one chapter.**

 **Also, note that alcohol is not actually a good way to combat insomnia. It may help you fall into a deeper sleep and do so quickly but it can cause you to wake up more frequently and to feel less rested than before (this is a very simple overview of the consequences). However not everyone is aware of this and will use it to self medicate anyway. Not to mention, as someone who has insomnia, wakes up frequently and is tired all the time anyway, anything that will help get you to sleep that first time can seem like a miracle and if I drank I'm not sure I would care too much about said 'consequences' as long as it meant I wasn't lying awake forever.**

 **Little piece of trivia: I've planning for a while now to make Our Lady Underground Persephone and Reynard's mother. It was supposed to be a surprise twist but apparently the writers had the same idea so 'Surprise?'. My version of Reynard and Persephone and their motivations is going to be slightly different, though, as I've already constructed the story around that. So hopefully nobody minds that too much.**

 **Also, someone asked if Quentin would be coming into this and I can tell them that eventually he will because I think he's a very important part of Julia's life and that he will need to be involved in some way for Julia to fully heal. However, it won't be for a long while. Right now, the story is very much just about Marina and Julia. Although, Kady will be coming into it to at some point, probably around part 3 (to give you some idea when that might be, we are currently about halfway through part 1 or just over that). Because I love Kady and I love her relationship with Julia and I need her in this story.**

 **Anyway, I would just like to thank you all for being so patient with me and I really am sorry about the wait.**

 ** _. . ._**

 ** _Darkness_**

 _noun_

 _the state or quality of being dark_

 _absence or deficiency of light_

 _wickedness or evil_

 _obscurity; concealment_

 _lack of knowledge or enlightenment_

 _lack of sight; blindness._

" _Where can I go?_

 _When the shadows are calling_

 _Shadows are calling me_

 _What can I do?_

 _When it's pulling me under_

 _Pulling me underneath . . ._ _"_

 ** _\- Deep End by Ruelle_**

…

Marina has never been a heavy sleeper, not since those far off nights as child, and so she's awake almost the instant Julia shifts beside her. Clearing the fog from her mind, she is relieved to discover that, unlike the last two nights, a decent amount of space has managed to remain between them. Thank God. Small mercies really can't be appreciated enough.

It also means that Julia's not tossing and turning _on top_ of her.

They're still holding hands, though.

Marina frowns as she feels the hand in hers clench. It's sweaty and hot, only further increasing an already powerful need to let go.

She doesn't.

She doesn't know why she doesn't.

Craning her head, she can just make out Julia's face in the darkness, twisted in discontent. Her lips move in frantic, silent words. Moonlight catches the faint shine on her cheeks.

Marina's face flushes with heat and she clenches her hands before she knows what she's doing - flinches when she again feels the soft skin pressed against her own.

A tear bleeds down the brunette's temple into her hair.

She makes a concentrated effort not to tense up, not to react. But fire licks at her insides, egging her on.

It boils her blood and she wants to lash out, to maim.

 _She hates him._

And if she ever gets the chance, she'll make sure he knows just how much.

She's not a sadist or particularly keen on torture - especially the kind that involves blood - but she wouldn't hesitate in making an exception for him.

Fire still building, she reaches out her free hand - the damaged one - and hesitantly rests it on Julia's cheek, wiping the wetness away.

The other woman's energy keens under her touch, she can feel the distraught static of it against her fingertips. Oddly enough, it seems to ease somewhat under her administrations, each stroke dampening the violent buzz to a weary hum.

Julia turns her face into her hand, skin too hot as it presses into her palm.

She doesn't want to let go.

She wants to let go more than anything.

Soundless murmurs against her skin, lips brushing with each syllable.

She has to focus to ensure that her rigidity doesn't extent to her fingers, that her nails don't dig into vulnerable flesh. Her heart pounds.

 _\- the monsters are here. The monsters have come to get her. She can sense them hiding in the shadows of her room, watching, waiting. Any moment they will strike and devour her. Now that they_ _'re no longer confined to her nightmares._

" _Shh, it's okay, Abby Baby."_

 _But her dad is here. Curled up beside her, arms wrapped around her sobbing frame - a shield. The monsters won_ _'t dare attack while he's here. He'll keep them away._

 _He always does._

 _A rough hand soothes the tears from her faces and she buries her head in his chest, hiding from the shadows._

" _You're safe. No-one's going to hurt you."_

 _She believes him, even with the terror still thrumming in her blood, sharp and wretched._

 _She believes him._

 _There is nowhere safer than in her dad_ _'s arms. Those arms, strong enough to toss her up into the air and catch her without a grunt, again and again until she's crying with laughter. Those arms that can operate a gun and a knife as easily as she does a pencil. What monster would dare touch him?_

 _No, he_ _'ll protect her. He would never let anything hurt her._

 _He_ _'ll keep the monsters away -_

Marina tears her hand away and releases her hold on Julia's - a tad too violently but the brunette doesn't stir.

Not sparing her a glance, she rolls over, curling her body inward, away from the risk of touch, of past, of feeling too much. Squeezing her eyes shut, she wills sleep to return, to push this into the forgotten hallways of memory.

It doesn't.

At three in the morning, she considers swiping a bottle of Irish whiskey from Julia's kitchen to help the process along. But that would only raise the risk of nightmares and she used _Ανονείρευτος_ , the dreamless sleep spell, just last night - hardly worth wasting it on the few measly hours before it's time to get out of bed. So she gives up and retreats to the bathroom to run through her drills again. All of them this time. From the top.

She turns on the light. Not because she needs it - she's long since passed the stage where she needs to watch the sharp, intricate movements of her hands; the patterns are etched into her body, the height of muscle memory - but because the darkness is oppressive. It takes her back, to those nights as a child, shadows closing in-

It takes her back to gasping on the floor, vision fading as the blood pools-

 _Trapped in the dark, nothing but the illumination of a few meager lights that always, inevitably are swallowed by the shadows. The walls around her, tighter, closer every day. She tries not to feel them. Tries to sleep. When He_ _'s not there. But the thump of footsteps above her, creak of floorboards, and murmurs of voices, familiar and otherwise, keep her alert, keep her awake. Maybe one of them will find her. But does she want that? Yes. No. She's safe here (she will never be safe here), He'll protect her (is that what this is?). The people out there want to hurt her, bind her in chains and sink her to the bottom of the river (W_ itch! Murderer!) _. But the darkness chokes her, wraps around her just as tightly as those chains, and she-_

 _Head screaming, bursting, a sickly smirk out of the corner of her gaze as she writhes, falls, gives into the black-_

Nothing good has ever come of the dark.

" _I_ _ŞIK!_ " Light bursts between her hands, stronger than any manmade flashbulb, the kind that would have hurt her eyes if she was still in darkness. She thinks of a basement and a time when she would have given anything for such light, and the energy that buzzes under her skin is familiar, a comfort. The only one she has.

She doesn't leave until Julia knocks on the door five hours later.

Of the two-hundred-and-fifty levels she once achieved to perfection, she only manages fourty-two.

When she steps out the door, there are cracks in the mirror again.

 _. . ._

" _. . . Darkness is sinking_

 _Darkness is sinking me . . ._ _"_

 ** _\- Deep End by Ruelle_**

 _. . ._

After she and Julia swap places in the bathroom, she unearths the disgusting remains of her clothes from their shoved place under the bed. She sets fire to them with a click of her fingers - thankfully, that's still one spell she can do without trouble. No denying that there's something cathartic about watching things burn. Maybe there's a closet pyromaniac inside her. Might be entertaining to have them come out more often. First order of business would be blowing up that TV - there's only so much 'Gilmore Girls' she can stand (about a minute and a half).

With Julia in the bathroom, now's her chance . . .

Lost in this train of thought, she forgets about the firealarm which promptly goes off with a piercing shriek the moment the smoke from her clothes reaches the ceiling - well at least it's operational. The problem's quickly solved with a wave of her hand, though not before a disheveled and partially dressed Julia bursts from the bathroom, wide-eyed and hands at the ready.

"Reynard?"

Of course - the wards around the house have that same migraine inducing scream when they've been triggered. Marina feels the slightest slither of guilt twist inside her as watches the other woman look around wildly, searching, equal parts eager and afraid. It's possibly the most animated she's seen her apart from when she stood seconds away from plunging a knife into Reynard and ending his miserable existence for good - if she ever gets her hands on Kady's boytoy . . .

"Fire alarm," she explains, tone blunt, expression unapologetic.

Julia's shoulders sag and it's hard to tell whether she's relieved or disappointed. Maybe both.

After that, they return to their respective corners of the apartment.

Martin - who failed to budge from his spot on the couch all through the disruption - leaps upon this new invention with glee and she and Julia spend the next few hours silencing the hell out of the alarm every time he sets it off.

Marina is never burning anything again. She'll be nursing this headache for days.

It turns out Julia does have some scarves tucked away in that closet of hers. She's surprised she missed them yesterday but supposes it's not entirely out of the realm of possibilities - even she can admit that she wasn't in the best frame of mind to go clothes hunting. She exchanges the turtleneck for a black sweater and a navy blue scarf. It wraps around her neck like a boa constrictor -

 _hands squeezing, air -_

And she rips it off and retrieves the turtleneck again. She's had more than enough of scarves for this lifetime anyway.

When she gets some alone time in the kitchen, she starts collecting the ingredients she'll need, same as yesterday, only to find that there's not enough witch hazel left to make the healing paste. And she's not ready to leave the apartment and get some more. Not yet.

Right now, the wards surrounding them are the only thing protecting her from Reynard. True, it's unlikely that he'll find her if she steps outside them. After all, he probably thinks she's dead and he doesn't seem the type you'd run into at your local supermarket. But a needle of dread still pierces her at the prospect. She can't risk it.

Not since she's reverted to amateur level when it comes to magic. And even when she was at the top of her game, she was no match for him.

It's a truth she has to face as much as she hates it.

She is, for the first time in almost two years, humiliatingly ( _terrifyingly_ ) weak.

And Reynard . . .

She was held captive by a cannibalistic serial killer for months, ever aware of how any minute shift in circumstance could lead to her being served up for next week's dinner party. There's very little that can scare her these days.

Reynard does.

He has all the power. _All_ of it. And absolutely no qualms when it comes to using it.

He's not the first to try to destroy her. But he does happen to be the one with the most likelihood of succeeding.

Disgusted, she tosses the meager beginnings of her spell into the bin and stalks off. Julia watches her from the couch, gaze burning into her back as she retreats to the bedroom.

Dinner that night is, if possible, even more awkward. Maybe because it's the first time all day that they share more than a minute in the same room - Marina is nothing if not a master in the art of avoidance. Looking at Julia, even now, assaults her with sensations she's done her best to push down since last night - hot, sticky skin pressed against her own, too soft, too much; the race of her pulse as she squeezed the hand in hers; the familiar but foreign tightness in her chest, _too tight;_ her father's hand against her cheek, the coarseness of his sweater against her face -

She clenches the fork in her hand.

Scavenging a plate and disappearing into the bedroom to eat would have been preferable but it would also have been pathetic. Then there's the fact that she has something she needs to discuss with Julia, something she's put off too long already.

\- _cooking with Martin is its own special circle of hell, one Dante conveniently forgot to mention (not his fault, he was fortunate enough to live in a time period that didn_ _'t include the asshole) and the kitchen knife is becoming harder and harder to pass up. It's true that she has a temper and whilst usually she can contain it with her iron control, Martin somehow knows all the right buttons to push (possibly he has a death wish)._

 _He is determined to interrupt her calm wherever possible._

 _She wonders whether he was born this annoying or if its a curse he acquired with age. She pities his family and friends. Or family anyway. No way did Bubl_ _é have friends._

" _Did you not sleep well last night? You are looking a tad wane." The prospect seems to inspire in him an unpleasant mix of curiosity and_ _delight_ _. It_ _'s been a while since she's entertained such graphic fantasies of murder but for him she'll make an exception._

" _I slept just fine." She pastes a smirk,_ _the kind that used to make first year Brakebills students pee their pants_ _. I_ _t_ _'s unsurprising but still disappointing that it doesn't have quite the same effect on him._ _"How was your night, though? That couch must be murder."_

 _Her attempt at deflection fails. He shrugs unconcernedly._ _"I've experienced far worse. It would of course be perfectly reasonable for you to be suffering nightmares after your ordeal with Reynard." He grins, all teeth, all predator._

 _His hands with the knife is so close to hers. Just a breath away. Her eyes flick to it as she forces the smirk to remain._ _"That may be true for you but I slept just fine."_

 _He scrutinizes her, entirely too_ _gleeful_ _, entirely unbelieving. A cat, toying with a mouse._

 _She hates being the fucking mouse._

" _I was unaware that peaceful sleep was so . . . loud."_

 _Just a breath away . . ._

 _Fortunately, or unfortunately, Julia chooses that moment to approach them, putting a stop to whatever crime scene was surely about to erupt._

 _Marina keeps the knife at the edges of her vision, anyway. Just in case -_

Just thinking of the conversation she had with Martin yesterday is enough to make her murderous all over again. She's not sure who she wants to kill more. Him or Reynard.

It did, however, raise an important question.

"Did I . . . say anything?" she forces out, fiddling with her knife. A nervous habit she thought long since defeated.

"What do you mean?"

She grits her teeth. "The other night. When I was sleeping."

The second time she was in Port Haven, they had a shortage of beds and stuck her with a roommate. She was able to inform Marina that, because her luck really is that bad, she'd somehow developed the ability to sleep talk. When she asked her what she would say when she did, her roommate was evasive at best.

' _Nothing really. Sometimes names. You mention your dad. Mostly you just cry.'_

The last part has her stomach churning now and she has to put down her fork and avoid looking at her plate of food so as not to risk any _further_ humiliation. It's fear of what she might have let slip in her unconscious state that has her raising a topic she would give anything to leave dead, though.

Remembering the nightmare she had, she can only imagine the kinds of things she might have said. None of them ease the wave of anxiety, swelling up inside of her. She might have told Julia the bare bones of what happened to her, or rather _one_ of the things that happened to her - because she's lucky enough to have a colorful variety - but that was when she was assured she wouldn't actually _remember_ any of it.

She's not ready for Julia to know her like that. She's not ready for _anyone_ to.

There is a pause that drags on too long in which Julia watches her carefully. Marina can't pick apart what lurks in her gaze but her gut twists with unease. Whatever it is, she doesn't like it. There's something far too knowing there.

But whatever Julia might have heard, she doesn't know a damn thing.

No-one does.

"You uh . . ." Julia pauses, pushes the food around on her plate in thought. There were enough leftovers from her cooking last night to see them through dinner but she notices the other woman has done little more than pick at hers. She'll have to keep an eye on that. It'll do them no good if they finally get their hands on Reynard only for Julia to pass out before delivering the killing blow - however she's going to do that. Not to mention, magic becomes excessively tricky (read: nigh impossible) to wield when you're malnourished.

She can attest to that.

But back to the problem at hand. Ascertaining that Julia remains as oblivious about her life as ever.

She's stalling, that much is obvious. Uncertain on what the best course of action is, what answer would serve Marina best. That doesn't exactly bode well. "You mentioned your dad."

"Oh." Something in Marina shuts down. Her heart lingers on a beat too long, her blood freezes her in place. For a moment, only darkness fills her mind. No thought. No feeling.

Darkness.

The moment ends. "What about him?" She tries to sound nonchalant, unconcerned with the answer. More or less succeeds. Enough practice will do that.

Her heart skips, picks up to an urgent race. How much could sleepy mumbles really have revealed? Enough to trigger the memory of that moment when they were in Julia's mind, when Marina confessed far too much? Is such a thing even possible? She's not looking at her like she _knows_. Knows all the gory details of her life.

She's seen that look enough to recognize it in an instant.

Julia shrugs, looking up from her plate. "Nothing. Just called out to him, I guess."

The relief is so strong that she doesn't pause to inspect whether the other woman might be lying to her. She can't. "Right. That sounds about right." She thinks about throwing in something about the nightmare having been one of those generic memories of being lost in a shopping mall as a kid, terrified and desperate for her father to find her. But that might be too obvious. She's not the type to overshare and Julia knows that. Telling her the (false) details of her dream would probably encourage more suspicion rather than snuff it out.

Marina turns her attention instead to eating, finishing off the last few mouthfuls of pasta. They settle uneasily in her still twisting stomach.

Julia hesitates. "Are you and your dad close?"

Her mouth thins. She pastes a smile that should pass for halfway convincing. "Hardly. And he died a long time ago, anyway."

Julia trains her gaze back on her plate, stirring with a tad too much focus. "Oh. Yeah. Mine too."

It's a revelation of sorts and Marina offers a weak smile, not sure if she's grateful or uneasy by Julia's willingness to share this information with her. Then again, her dad's probably not the big elephant in the room that hers always seems to be. Their relationship probably wasn't quite that colorful.

Probably died from something mundane like cancer. Maybe a car accident.

Tragic but average.

She can't deny her interest. She has a particular thirst for unearthing people's vulnerabilities, turning them around in her head, inspecting for ways they can be used to her advantage. Weak points.

It's habit to do that again now and she has to struggle to put on the brakes and halt the process. Morality is somewhat elusive to her these days but there's something uneasy in her chest that tells her it wouldn't be _right._ At least, not for the time being. Not after the other night.

What Julia did for her.

Even through the anger and shame at being _seen_ , there's a trickle of gratitude for her. For what she did. For not not bringing it up, even now when Marina herself has broached the subject. She doesn't have it in her to thank her. To shine a light on what happened, or to lay herself bare in that way ever again.

But she can resist the urge to delve into her weaknesses and carve weapons from what she finds there to use against her.

She can do that.

At least for now.

. . .

" _The spoken word converts individual knowledge into mutual knowledge, and there is no way back once you've gone over that cliff. Saying nothing was more amendable, and over time I'd come to see that it was usually your best course of action."_  
 _―_ _ **Karen Joy Fowler**_ _,_ _ **We Are All Completely Beside Ourselves**_

 _ **. . .**_

So it's been almost a week since returning from Fillory, and she's no closer to figuring out a way to destroy Reynard - has actually gotten further away from that particular destination - or figuring out what's going on with Marina. Granted, the last is little more than a side project to keep her mind off how everything seems to be going- _has gone_ to shit. It's not working very well.

Maybe because she's exhausted all of her information. There's nothing new to go on. All she has is a vague feeling of knowing something that she _doesn_ _'t_ and the distorted murmurs caused by a nightmare.

There was a moment, during dinner, when Marina broached the subject with her, giving her the perfect opportunity to fish for clues. But she didn't. Quite the opposite, actually. She went so far as to deny knowledge of the little information she did have. To reassure Marina.

Because she saw it. The fear in her eyes. Skillfully hidden but by this point she likes to think she knows her well enough to detect those kind of irregularities in her demeanor. Fear at being seen, being _known_. Of whatever she wants hidden seeing the light.

And all the questions disappeared from her then. All the curiosity and thirst for distraction. None of it was important.

All that mattered in that moment was eliminating the fear in her eyes. She never wanted to see it there again.

(knew she would)

It's a relief to know that she cares. For a minute there, she began to doubt that she still could. That when Reynard hollowed her out, he did so completely, stealing away with her humanity on top of everything else.

But she still loves Quentin - the feeling is dulled, easily ignored, and she doesn't experience the guilt she knows she should for betraying him, instead she feels anger at his interference in the trap they set for Reynard, that he might have ruined the one chance she had to take him down, but he had warned her, and she had warned him right back, and it's all just a jumbled mess of confusion that most days doesn't even register. But she knows she loves him.

And she knows she cares whether Marina is hurt. Whether she's scared.

And it's a relief.

"I have something for you."

The voice startles her and she flinches, eyes almost wild, and glances around for the source. But it's just Marina, coming into her room, a handful of papers in hand. And she tries to relax, really she tries. But her body is rigid and her heart is too loud, too fast and the headache that's only just started to abate resurges with a vengeance.

Marina pauses in the doorway, expression inscrutable. Julia knows she sees, though.

She feels lightheaded. And it's only then she realizes that she's holding her breath.

She exhales, too harsh, too quick, and feels a rush of dizziness for the effort. But her muscle relax slightly as she pulls fresh oxygen into her lungs and the bite of her nails into her skin - she notices her hands have clenched into fists - distracts her from the pounding in her chest.

After a minute, she breathes a little easier, sees a little clearer.

Her head still hurts like a mother fucker.

"What time is it?" Because disorientation is starting to set in and she can't remember how long she's been sitting in here, on her bed, staring at the wall. Only that it's darker than she remembers and the scrape of her throat speaks of dehydration.

"Almost nine," Marina answers. She doesn't comment on Julia's freak reaction or her current confusion and for that she's grateful.

Nine. She's been in here for three hours. There's a book beside her on European folklore. It's from the days of FTB when they were looking for anything they could dig up on Our Lady Underground. She hoped it might offer some insight on Reynard for them now but there's not much to find.

French.

Fox.

Trickster.

 _Benevolent._

So basically just a bunch of crap.

She came in here to read it. But she couldn't concentrate. And then her thoughts got ahold of her. The rest is a blur.

She sighs and rubs her eyes, suddenly feeling her exhaustion. "Did you say you had something?"

Her heart picks up again but this time it's not fear that makes her sit at attention. It's hope. Or what she can manage of it. Maybe she's done it. Maybe she's found what Julia can't. An answer. A-

The other woman nods and comes further into the room, taking a seat on the bed. There's a near meter of space between them. She's not sure if it's for her benefit or Marina's. Possibly both. Either way, it's welcome.

"I wrote down the basic steps of that dreamless sleep spell," she says, drawing her attention to the papers in her hand. "Figured you might want it."

Her shock overcomes the familiar pangs of disappointment. She's surprised at the gesture. Though maybe she shouldn't be. "Thanks."

Marina scowls. "Please, like I want to go through the effort of casting that spell on you myself all the time. And this is hardly the first spell I've ever given you - which reminds me, we need to work on expanding your repertoire if you're serious about taking on Reynard."

That's true and she remembers days and nights hunched over binders and papers in the Safe House, Marina seated beside her, talking her through the process, correcting her errors and giving rare but useful advice.

Things were so much easier then.

It might even be nice, to return to some semblance of that. There are so many spells out there and it would be a lie to say she doesn't still hunger to get her hands on all of them. Marina, at least, has the knowledge to bring her just a little closer to that dream.

She doesn't comment on the Reynard part. Marina knows she's serious. They both are. There are some things that don't need to be voiced to be understood.

"Still," she insists. "I appreciate it."

And something falters in her gaze, just for a second, maybe even half, but Julia catches it. Even so, she's not sure what it is that she sees.

Last night, when Marina was in the shower, she unearthed her scarves from the chest she kept them in and scattered them in conspicuous - but not overly so - places in her closet. What she really wants to do is heal the other woman but knows the offer will only make Marina retreat further. Or lash out.

But Marina is still wearing that same damn turtleneck - the one she wore for her Brakebills exam and hasn't touched since - and she wonders if whether she should have been more obvious after all. It's not something she can ask about, though. Just another question to lock away inside her and ponder for answers.

She doesn't do well with unanswered questions.

That old thirst rears its head as she looks the pages over after Marina relinquishes them. She soaks in the feeling, the fire. How hard it once was to get her hands on even the barest traces of magic. It still feels a little like a drug every time she grasps some but it no longer controls her - that craving.

Well, no more than her caffeine addiction does.

Marina's writing is in block letters so as to be more legible - Julia has complained about her confusing scribble in the past - but it's the diagrams that hold her attention. Drawing after drawing of hand positions, surprisingly detailed and accurately, as well as sketches of what she should picture in her mind as she performs the spells.

They're good. Far exceeding anything Julia can create with a pen.

"Just . . ." Marina shifts. "Use it sparingly, okay? Or you might find yourself with some unpleasant side-effects."

"What kind of side-effects?" To be honest, Julia doesn't even care. Not really. If it'll get rid of the nightmares, if she can stop reliving that moment again and again, she doesn't care if it makes all her hair fall out.

Marina shrugs. "Oh, you know: paranoia, panic attacks, hallucinations. The usual. I knew one guy who started eating shit because he thought he was a dung beetle . . ."

Julia grimaces.

All of a sudden she's reluctant to take the spell but not so reluctant that she wont. She'd eat shit if it meant a break from the nightmares but she'd rather not have to.

"How often is too often?"

Marina considers the question for a moment. "It varies. I'd start with one night on, three nights off. See how that goes."

Sounds reasonable enough. Even a temporary reprieve is better than none.

"Thanks," she says and means it.

This wasn't something that she asked for. Marina didn't have to give it to her. Especially after the incident with Reynard. But she did this for her anyway. Even gone the extra mile and, instead of just showing Julia the spell, writing it out for her so that she can learn it in her own time. The pile of pages isn't thin - it would have taken a while to complete.

Thing about Marina is, for all her obvious protestations to the contrary, she does care.

 _-_ _"Jesus, Julia, I wanna help." -_

It's just a little harder to spot than with most. But when you see it, you _see_ it.

And you can't close your eyes to it.

You're stuck with the knowledge, whether you want it or not.

(she's not sure she does)

It's a care, a _kindness_ she's not sure she deserves after everything that's happened. As much as she wants to escape the nightmares a small part of her wonders if she has the right to. Maybe this is her punishment to bear. For summoning Reynard. For all the lives that he's destroyed. For betraying Quentin.

( _he betrayed you too, he said he_ _'d help you catch Reynard and instead he ruined what might have been your only chance to stop him)_

Marina turns uncomfortable at the gratitude. "Yeah, well, it's more for my sake than yours. You keep kicking me in your sleep."

She doesn't know if that's true. James always said she slept like the dead, even when she was dreaming. But that could have changed. Nothing else has stayed the same, so why should that?

"Oh. Sorry." She feels something that might be guilt, or shame. It's hard to tell, weak as it is. It's an uncomfortable emotion whatever it is. But deserved - on top of feeding her to Reynard, she's also cutting into her sleep time.

"It's fine." Marina's response is terse and, if anything, she looks even more uncomfortable with the apology. Unbelievable. Before Reynard, she'd never even glimpsed a flicker of unease in the other woman. Now it seems to be happening far too much. It uneases her. Things have changed too much already. "I'm going to take a shower."

It's the regular excuse slash exit strategy that both of them have been employing, to various degrees of success. Sometimes you just need to run.

Julia nods, and lets her go.

. . .

" _Unexpected kindness is the most powerful, least costly, and most underrated agent of human change. Kindness that catches us by surprise brings out the best in our natures."_

 ** _\- Bob Kerrey_**

 ** _. . ._**

 **A/N: Işık (Turkish for 'light, sun') is a spell used to create light in the books. It's the hedge witch version of similar one taught at Brakebills and is the spell for Level 1 that hedges need to be able to demonstrate in order to be let into safe houses. The way they use levels is a lot more ambiguous on the show and I've decided to incorporate a lot more from the books when it comes to that and the world of hedge magicians. Mostly because I like the descriptions of it in the book and how it seems to be an organised, worldwide network operating right under the noses of 'real magicians' who for the most part don't even know it exists. On the show, they seem more like crack houses that those at Brakebills are fully aware of (as evidenced by Elliot in the third episode). So I'm going for a mix of these two.**

 **I can't recall if I've mentioned this before but just in case Port Haven is the Psychiatric Facility they stuck Abigail in after her family was killed. I've got some theories about this - and how I'm not convinced it was entirely legal or was, at the very least, an abuse of power - but I'll get into that another time.**

 **There is also a reference here to the time Hannibal kept Abigail in his basement. I don't think he kept her in there 24/7 - we know he took her out at least once to manipulate her into slashing the throat of her father's corpse - but we do know from Word of God that she was kept in there. Seeing as, apparently, Beverly Katz saw her down there before Hannibal killed her. It was also dark enough down there that Beverly needed a torch to see at the time.**

 **I've gotta say I'm disappointed with how the writers decided to let Reynard go. Whether or not Julia kills Reynard is entirely her choice. Whatever feels right for her is what's best. If she wants to kill him, she would be justified. If she doesn't want to, she would also be justified in that. But I hate that he is basically escaping unpunished. There is no evidence to show that Persephone will do anything to make him pay appropriately for his crimes or that she will even contain him. She's had centuries to deal with Reynard. She knew what he was doing and she let it slide. Twice in the last forty years he's gone on a rampage and yet she stood back and did nothing. She would have continued to do nothing if Julia hadn't proved that she was about to kill him. That doesn't sound like someone who's willing to dispense justice. For all we know, he's living it up wherever she's taken him (probably not but we don't KNOW that) What's to say he doesn't return to earth and start up all over again. Maybe not in Julia's lifetime but somewhere down the line? Reynard needs to be eliminated, not just because of his crimes but because he's a threat. A huge one.**  
 **It also felt too much like how in real life rapists get off most of the time with barely a slap on the wrist, if even that. And what, it's OK to kill Ember and Umber but not Reynard? They may have ruined people's lives but they're nowhere near as bad as Reynard. And it could be said that they were mirroring that, trying to be realistic or some such, and show Julia having to cope with what many survivors of rape go through everyday - the knowledge that their rapist is still out there and that there will be no justice for what they did to them. But I don't think the writers were even considering that. I don't think they've been thinking about the messages they send at all which, in my opinion, is one of the worst things you can do as a writer. What you put out into the world shapes it. There are consequences to what you write. You can do great harm as well as great good and it's important to keep that in mind. (and of course there's this post post/159979289101/margopluchinsky-feel-free-to-disagree-but)**

 **Paired with the fact that they took away Julia's shade as punishment for getting an abortion - perhaps not the message they intended but one that came across nonetheless - I remain very disappointed in her storyline this season.**  
 **They can't even blame these things on sticking to the books. Reynard was killed in the books (by Kady) and there was no pregnancy or abortion to speak of.**

 **OK, that's my rant. I'm just a little angry. Sorry.**

 **Also to the guest who left this review:**

 **"Just another fantastic chapter. You apologise for it being mostly filler but that's what I love about this story - you are taking the time to paint a picture and give us a realistic story development. Marina/Abigail has spent so long on her own, and been betrayed by so many people, that it's only natural that she would resist any sort of connection with Julia and resent the fact that she needs any help whatsoever. By taking the time to explore this aspect of Marina's character you are really making the story come alive.**

 **There is so much more in this chapter to admire as well - Marina's determination to overcome her disability and become as powerful as she ever was rings so true, the descriptions of Abigail in therapy are incredibly evocative and the final paragraph setting out their night time routine is simple but beautiful.**

 **Anyway I'm really looking forward to seeing where you take the characters and the story next"**

 **Honestly, just thankyou so much. I was feeling particulary down and self-critical when I got this and it gave me such a boost. It meant a lot. Wish I knew your name so I could remember you :)**

 **Also, if you're interested, check out my Marina/Julia vids where I attempt to make people cry:**  
 **watch?v=JQ_sTg5Y6Xg**  
 **watch?v=Yl1MnbVCBtQ**  
 **watch?v=S-kNwZCE-3Y (a julia vid)**  
 **I made a really bad intro trailer for this fic /JrZNJh8crYI**  
 **Say hi to me and we can cry about Marina and Julia together!**  
 **Twitter: /BonnieLextra**  
 **Tumblr: welcometocaritas**


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